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The Rather Extraordinary Life Neville and I Would Lead
By Gordon
A gentleman considers the rather extraordinary life he and Neville would lead if software cost nothing at all.
SALON SOFTWAREHUMORDAYDREAMSBUSINESS REALITIES
A gentleman considers the rather extraordinary life he and Neville would lead if software cost nothing at all.
Settles into regular booth, regular bar, reasonably-priced Negroni
Neville on lap, single piece of tapas between us
You know what I was thinking about this morning? Free salon software. Not the various interpretations of "free" one encounters in the marketplace, but genuinely, actually, magnificently free. Zero. Nothing. Gratis.
takes contemplative sip
closes eyes for a moment
What would I do with all that extra money?
drifts...
First, obviously, the penthouse. That one overlooking the Yarra with the floor-to-ceiling windows. The one where the sunrise hits just right and makes everything look like it's been dipped in gold. Neville would have his own room, naturally—south-facing, perfect afternoon light for napping.
The terrace would be substantial. Room for the outdoor bar, the lounging area, perhaps a small putting green. Nothing ostentatious, you understand. Just... sufficient.
Neville would approve.
Speaking of Neville—his grooming would become considerably more elaborate. That place in Paris that does the diamond-encrusted collars? We'd become regulars. Monthly visits, naturally. First class, both ways.
His regular groomer on Chapel Street—lovely woman, does excellent work—she'd come on retainer. Available whenever Neville requires attention. Which, between you and me, is more often than one might think.
The premium shampoo. The cologne. The tiny bow ties in various colors. All of it.
And that second location in South Yarra she's always discussed? Prime real estate, floor-to-ceiling windows, marble fixtures? I'd make that happen. Silent partner, naturally. Just a quiet conversation over champagne, a check written with a fountain pen, and a handshake.
Just a small one. Nothing vulgar. Perhaps 60 feet? Enough for weekend trips to the bay, entertaining a few close friends, teaching Neville the finer points of maritime navigation.
We'd call it something understated. "Perpetual Motion" perhaps. Or "Beautiful Impossibility." Something with a knowing wink.
The crew would be minimal—two, maybe three people. We're not running a cruise ship, after all. Just a gentleman and his Chihuahua requiring occasional transport across pleasant waters.
The holiday house. Obviously Lake Como—where else does one go to escape Melbourne's winter? That villa with the terraced gardens and the view that makes you forget time exists.
Neville would have his own section of garden. Perfectly manicured, naturally. Perhaps a small fountain—nothing too dramatic, just enough to provide pleasant ambient sound during his afternoon contemplations.
We'd summer there. Spring there, actually. Autumn too, come to think of it.
My tailor—brilliant man, works out of that discrete location in the city—he could finally take that sabbatical in Milan he's always discussed. Six months studying under the masters. I'd sponsor it, naturally.
When he returned, refreshed and inspired, he'd create an entirely new wardrobe for me. Something that captures the essence of a man whose salon software costs absolutely nothing.
Twelve suits. Twenty shirts. An assortment of pocket squares that would make grown men weep with envy.
Neville would get matching bow ties, obviously.
Actually, forget the penthouse in Melbourne. We'd have a regular spot in Paris. You know the type—that little bar tucked down a side street in the 6th arrondissement. The one where they know your name, where the bartender has your Negroni waiting before you sit down.
Neville and I would spend our afternoons there. The light coming through those tall windows, the sound of French conversations around us, the perfectly chilled champagne, the endless parade of exquisite small plates.
We'd become fixtures. The elegant gentleman and his impeccably groomed Chihuahua, holding court at the corner table. Locals would nod as they passed. Tourists would wonder who we were.
The sommelier would understand that Neville prefers his water still, not sparkling. That I take my Negroni with a specific ratio that varies based on the weather. That on Tuesdays we prefer something with more body, but Thursdays call for something brighter.
Every day would unfold like this. Leisurely mornings, long afternoons at our little bar, evenings wherever the moment took us.
No schedules. No invoices. No server costs or SMS fees or payment processing percentages.
Just... time. And taste. And the kind of life one leads when everything is free.
opens eyes
still in regular booth
still regular bar in Melbourne
Neville still on lap, looking up with that expression
the single piece of tapas, half-eaten
the reasonably-priced Negroni, ice melting slightly
Oh.
No.
Right.
slight smile
Things cost money.
Neville sighs, settling back into position
takes sip
Keep it simple. Keep it Gordon.