She wore her rue with a difference.

Many dears have expressed keen interest in the device that created my little $3 million start-up pool and $6 million for a friend. Remember my last letter? That’s the fellow.

It’s a handheld tester, something the size of a cell phone with pop-in module at one end and transmitter to satellite at the other. The gps receiver was at centre. We had it in cool brushed steel (plastic facsimile I’m ashamed to say), but it was slated to appear in cherry red and masculine cool blue. Before the bureaucratic fuss that ended the venture, we transferred rights to another company. The patents exist, fully loaded and ready to rock. Which brings me to – you guessed it – patent raiding.

Our little item is as adaptable as duct tape. Pluck out the module, which isn’t needed except for medical testing. Stretch the rest and narrow it and, hey presto, you own an electronic child finder. It weighs next to nothing. Little Wanda will forget she’s wearing it. It bends like ribbon and becomes a fashionable part of sleeve, sneaker or backpack. Colour it as you like, with glitter and stars if you want. And mom will never fear Wanda walking off. She’ll find her in an instant with her gps locator.

This little saga perfectly illustrates the upside of patent raiding. The plucky venture I’ve invested in has a Mensa team (selected carefully; these aren’t Asperger rejects) leaf through the patent registry. Their instructions are to imagine other uses for processes and products. The results are crazy. But that’s the whole idea, to think outside the box. The company sifts the results. One in a hundred goes to "legal", the fancy name for a couple of investigators who search the patent holder. Almost always the company is defunct. The venture picks up the patent for $100 and spins it off to a glitzy hi-tech for $50,000 plus a percentage of the profit. It’s the percentage that makes you rich. Because the venture, in high gear, turns a patent around twice a month. It hits paydirt once a year, which earns enough in percentage plus the $100,000 monthly, to buy a bottle or two of really nice Champagne. And there’s enough left for an occasional deposit to that sweet off-shore near the beach.

I confess, the whole thing has left me lazy. I drift on a little raft with my hands in the water. The sun isn’t too, too hot. But not cold either. And I think of all those patents the boys and girls are reading back in the smoke and cement. All the pages with all those words and diagrams that I can never understand. Brrrrrrr. It’s enough to drive one to tears and admiration. Still, we all soldier ahead as best we can.

Au revoir for now.

En-ter-tain-ment. Salesmanship. La, la, la. That’s what it’s all about. Shimmer, kling-klang, glitter, sleight of hand that makes the swamp look attractive, the dreadful stock glisten. Yes, I made my first million with a hair oil salesman, if you must know. It was considerably more than a million and entirely an accident. I followed all the rules and everything went wrong, but it turned out right. For little me. Go figure.

You’ve asked what happened. A few of my intimates have. So here’s the story. It could happen to anyone.

It was a beautiful fall day when Peter rolled into town. He’d cast his net in Asian waters. I didn’t know the detail. Start-ups, you know. Horse-racing characters throwing millions his way. The story changed every time I asked. There might have been a wife or two in the smaller cities. I trusted him like a cobra. But he had houses in fashionable spots, which is a good test. I checked the registrations. And yes, the titles were in his name and the mortgages were tiny. A little hacking showed a healthy balance in his accounts and a nice off-shore cash flow I suspected was illegal but interesting. One doesn’t live with boy scouts, dear, after all.

We put our heads together, he and I, and founded a virus testing company. I was alone in those days. No heart was fluttering in the breeze near mine. We surfed and flew, first class of course, and collected patents on a quick detector of the latest cow disease. Very chi-chi and scientific with a capital S. The detail was simple, as it has to be to make large dollars. You prong the cow with a device like a small cell phone. A drop of blood enters the module where a microchip tests conductivity through a special solution affected by the blood. The results together with test ID, date and gps info are automatically uploaded by satellite to Chicago. Data collection is instant and 24/24. Correlation continues around the clock. The module is a plastic affair that cost pennies and pops in and out of the testing device. Failure-proof. Cheap. And the idea floats cheerfully on the world-wide simmering fear of contaminated meat and farmers destroying their herds and national economies going down the toilet. So technological, so basic, so guaranteed.

We lobbied the WHO and every international farmers alliance on the planet, and came away with testimonials up the you-know-what.

When the righteous investors came along, the ones with over $5 million each, they brought their lawyers. But we were ready. We had factories lined up for pre-production. We showed patents and testimonials and reports. We had a dozen accounts with different signing rules for different classes of shares. We had two biologists on the board. And we had gadgets for the lawyers to play with, the devices and modules and plastic cows. Everything was perfectly legitimate, right? Everything was real. The colours changed and bells rang when the plastic cow was infected. Everything worked. The sun was shining. And the money poured in.

How it poured in. We were swimming in the stuff.

Peter and I informally discounted a modest amount of option stock. He took $6 million, I took $3 million and we placed it in a sunny clime. Strictly against a rainy day. And we hired a CEO to carry the ball. Which he did. A German fellow. Lovely man, strong, blond, as I recall. And Peter and I faded from the scene. We spoke less, traveled infrequently. Left it all to Detlev, the CEO.

The stock went public all right and levered itself up to $28 a common share, before the rumours started.

By then, Peter and I were in greener pastures, southern France. We’d moved on. Our telephone numbers had changed. We gave interviews and shrugged our shoulders. We’d relied on the scientists. What else could business do? We appeared in the glossies, the celebrity journals, so we could resurface as stars. People would forget what happened and adore us for our wry smiles and sun glasses and wealth and aw-shucks.

There was an investigation, but we’d documented everything really well. People get rich. People get poor. It’s the luck of the draw. But it didn’t hurt to have a plan. And to get out early. And not to be greedy. $3 million isn’t much, but it’s a start.

So that’s how I began. I won’t tell you how old I was. Let’s say I wasn’t very long in the tooth. It turned out that Peter was the consummate salesman, an artist in his craft. And I lent a certain flair to his performance. We both had smarts. You need it to assemble all the pieces. And it’s important that the technical backdrop exist. This wasn’t a pipedream or swamp in the everglades. A few months earlier or later, and with different luck, our little company might have rivaled the major pharmaceuticals.

A long time passed without seeing Peter. He popped up recently, as handsome as ever and full of ideas. I put a few cents into this and that. I might report on how it turns out, but not till spring. It’s films, this time. A lonely beauty displays her virtue, and handsome hero whiles away his innocent hours. Evil enters. Beauty is endangered. Battle ensues with major hopes and dreams at stake. Right and wrong grow blurred. Fate determines the outcome. Essential cast wax all grim tears. Roll credits. The plot is eternal.

And technology is ripe to revive our little testing company. Imagine the dollars at stake. 

Au revoir, loves.

You’re lovely, all of you. And especially those who have asked me to break a cardinal rule. No, not that rule. Slap your wrist. I mean the one that says it’s impolite to discuss real problems. So Gertie finds herself on the horns of a dilemma.

Many of you have asked about this particular issue. It’s a thorny one all right. Not simple. At the same time, we mustn’t grow all somber and serious. The mind and heart don’t work properly when we get grim or pompous. There are so many of you and you all ask the same thing… All right, loves, I’ll do it. Just this once.

How to avoid the 2008 bust. Which assumes we’ll have a crash and not a slow dwindle of values on stock markets, or not a plummet followed by bounce-back as large investors troll for bargains. After all, people must place their money somewhere. Let’s not get technical about recessions and slumps and depressions and all the other "shuns". We’re talking about how to keep the few dimes and quarters you’ve scraped together through the years. You do have a few, darling, don’t you?

Now, I haven’t thought of these things on my lonesome. Some very generous dears have talked to me during flights to their weekend houses on the bay, the ones you need the seaplane to reach. And there’s a consensus of opinion, really. You’re getting the best minds in the business thinking about this, and Gertie has nothing if not a great memory. Speaking of great memories, I must tell you about a closely guarded investment secret. The salmon industry is a catastrophe, but the upside can be enormous, because its adjunct is often gambling revenue from first nation reserves. Interested in a speculative wager? That’s for another day.

Imagine you’re 40 years old with a million in the bank. There’s a reason for this. You’ll see later. Follow along, darling, and take your hand away. You’re distracting me. The million includes equity in the house, cash, market value of securities, the full monty. All invested in a nice range of names. Balanced prudently for income and preservation of capital. Nothing risky to the point of scandal, but no long-term government bonds either.

If you have another 20 to 25 years before retirement, the market will stabilize nicely long before that time. The value of your house will rise. You don’t have a thing to worry about except maximizing your position after the crash. If you care. And, really, why should you? That’s the key. There’s no reason to devote a moment’s thought to the crash, love. Simply and cheerfully strengthen your position at work. Add another string to your bow. Four season tickets to football or hockey never hurt. Invite people who will smooth your rise through executive ranks. Make friends a level or two above you. For those important games, aim at higher management. If they already have seats, they’ll think of you as somebody like them, reliable, one of the boys. Exactly what you want them to think. If they accept your invitation, make light of it when you get to the game. You’re there for a good time. Provide everything: food, drinks, a T-shirt. Offer souvenirs for their kids. Not a whisper about work, darlings. It’s fun, fun, fun. And invite them to the next game too. The idea is to get on a first name basis. Next day at the stockyards, and next week and month, they’ll remember you. Massage the social scene. Don’t trouble with stock performance. Your salary on the upswing is worth more than analyzing the market. Research, these days - let’s be honest - is like reading bird entrails, only without the predictive power, and oh so boring, boring, boring.

If you don’t yet have the portfolio spreadsheet I’ve described (you know, range and type of investments), get yourself there. It’s not hard. And ride out the tough times.

I give the same advice to younger friends and to unfortunate chums with a little less saved in the Caribbean.

The real concern lies - doesn’t it always? - with the grayhairs. They rely on the market for income, or will soon, and can’t wait for it to bounce back.

So how should mature loves, silver threads among the gold, gird their loins for the 2008 crash? These gentle darlings are close to 60 with under $2 million in asset value. At stake is whether they have a beach home or a simple condo, whether they take that annual holiday to cruise the exhibitions in Paris, can they afford a nice collection of wines for unexpected guests.

Well, the market is going to rock and roll before it bottoms. So we’ll start with the basics: aim for the good enough, not perfection. Buy early, when the roller coaster still has ups and downs ahead. And jump aboard when the little engine is low. Don’t wait for it to bottom; that’s bird entrails territory. The beautiful people will finish their business by late spring, so we can gather to sail and watch the puffins before the weather gets too, too hot. One doesn’t want the skin to get all leathery. That’s so George Hamilton.

Now what sectors to buy? I wouldn’t suggest this except it’s the consensus, dear. What’s Gertie to do, faced with advice from talented and good-looking darlings?

First, the hydrocarbons. The price will go up and up. Buy during a lull and watch the stocks bounce back quickly after the plummet. The reasons are complicated and involve another war. Which reminds me. We have to store up some lovely movies to watch during the worst days. Look for Bacall and Bogie, or if you like sultry, Sharon Stone can hit an occasional high C. Pity there’s not a man around today to carry it with her.

Then the currencies. We’re talking the good old U.S. and Canadian dollar, loves. Why? It’s a matter of trust and size. The Chinese don’t have the trust, and the Europeans don’t have the size. Besides, foreign governments have placed so much of their reserves in the dollar market that they can’t afford to have it shrink much.

Next we check the fundamentals. This takes a few minutes of note taking. We want 40 to 50 per cent of our holdings in shares that produced decent dividends in the slumps of 2006 and 2007 and that dropped slower in value than the average and regained faster.

Forget the super-stocks that rocket into the stratosphere. They’ll always be with us, but the chance of hitting one is like finding a pure and honest soul, sitting alone, reading a cultured novel at a sidewalk café in San Tropez.

Lastly, there’s cash and friendship. You can’t have enough of either. There’s never a guarantee, darling, that anyone can get the investment profile right. But have enough intimate chums and some will carry you through the tough spots. The reverse is also true, not unfortunately but thankfully. When an old lover has uncertain moments, you must come to their rescue. They’ll do the same. You can live in their beach house if you must sell yours. But this equally means that your own house must be large. When your portfolio is bursting with health, you must be able to keep several friends at ease, in separate bedrooms, with quiet and private spots to turn the pages of a thriller and gaze at the pelicans.

Life is a pleasure with friends and cash. I’ve followed the courses plotted by these wise and discrete souls before, and ended up with plenty of both.

Till next time, darling.

I’m back from a verdant idyll, darlings, and it has got some screaming hot buys. I’m thinking long run. No, that’s not a contradiction. Let me explain.

Unspoiled redwood forest. That’s what it is. Soaring eagles unafraid of human intrusion, humming birds, ocean inlets with rocky promontories on which sea lions bask, pools of perch, enough wind to catch the sails of your blue water boat and shady marinas with all the mod cons. And sweet water springs. Enough ferry traffic to run in supplies, but woefully inadequate for the jangling tourist. Four hours by boat from the nearest city or a few minutes by single engine seaplane, the seaplane that costs about the same as a car and lands snug up against your dock. You won’t believe, loves, how easy it is to fly a single-prop. I’ve done it myself and I’m a disaster when it comes to mechanical things.

This is a place to live. That’s why it’s an investment for the long run. Your neighbours watch your house while you’re away and you look after theirs. Homes are invisible behind the screen of winding forest paths. You don’t see a soul unless you want to. If someone is in Europe or South America, why, you meander their turf. You keep a general eye out, as they say. And property values hover a steady 30% behind the other fingers of shoreline, because truckers can’t invade. There’s no traffic. You can’t beg, borrow, or steal properties. You have to befriend oldsters who don’t have children and hope they bequeath you their five bedroom. Otherwise it’s hopeless.

The downside? There must be one. You have to like rain, for example. I mean warm rain, the kind that pitter patters outside the 360 window while you read snug and curled up with a cup of hot chocolate listening to the stereo. Warm so you don’t mind the walk to your skiff or seaplane to pick up your ex-spouses and their current dreadful mistakes. (We’re in the 21st century. We must be civilized.) Despite the rain, it’s bright enough to run electricity off the solar panels. We follow the green laws here. We separate different kinds of garbage and re-use whatever we can. Nothing goes to waste. Nobody minds, because everyone does it. There’s no feeling of sacrifice or pity me. Oh, and everyone is screaming rich in the nicest, politest way. You can get a tiny 20 acre for under a million and simply live on it the rest of your days.

A friend invited me for a couple of weeks. Did I describe Lance to you? Well, that’s for another time. Treated me like royalty. Didn’t have to lift a finger. Though I did, of course.

Especially the math. I did the math on the third evening. A work-up. Say I place a million in someone’s hands who sees to these little things. Someone who ensures that an elderly person loves me enough to deed me their lovely house. What do I need in the bank to add a few persimmons and radicchios to the mix? Is it just a contribution to Lance’s seaplane and the cost of a holiday or two? No, thinks I. There’ll be a quarrel. Permanent pals, however agreeable they are, have fierce arguments. Lance is the perfect gentleman, but experience says it’s safer to stay a separate person.

Don’t think I’m not tempted. The pressure of fashion and keeping up - what can I say? - lies sometimes like acid on the tum-tum. But the math was all wrong, or I’m too young, or Lance isn’t Mr Right. Maybe he put something in my coffee and I didn’t think clearly. So there’s this little piece of paradise, my friends, available for nothing. Perfect as a second home, a third, or even a first. One day a horrible person will pave some road and values will soar. You’ll make a fortune, I’m telling you. But first you have to guess where this is. Think about it carefully. If you’re clever you’ll find the spot. Goodness knows I’ve given you clues.

Till next time. Love you.

Hello My Lovelies,

When I was at summer camp years ago (oh those halcyon days of sun and young bodies), Big Dave ran an old frying pan along the outside of the bunkhouses every morning after reveille. "All right girls. Wake up. Get your girdles on," he trilled. Girls? Girdles? Well, he should know. Which takes me to holidays and leisure, our lodestar of the day. When life gets you down, don’t you long for foreign shores, to kick the dust off your feet and switch off that evil phone, so you can focus on the darling next to you?

Well, listen up, dears. We’re entering the golden age. Those boomers we’ve read about are packing it in. They’re having bypasses and selling the box companies their fathers started. They want places to go and things to do. Sure, scads will take a condo in Deerfield beach. Those are great investments for the foolhardy. Talk about risk. All this palaver about global warming and sea levels rising and these lovely people buy property right on the ocean. Well, who would think? Actually, they compromise at the last minute, because their brains are first class. Oceanfront is way too expensive. They buy units with partial views or across the street. But that’s not the point. I had good friends, I swear it, through my wild years. Didn’t you? And they provided little me (how is a great story, I’ll tell you later) with a handful of shekels to toss into a developer’s lap. But I refused to unload cash into beachfront where the sand is regularly washed away and hurricanes destroy what’s left. I don’t know. Call me foolish. It doesn’t appeal to me. So thumbs down on Pompano Beach.

Now, I say thumbs down. But we aren’t idiots are we? We know how to hedge. I bought this tiny darling condo right on the beach south of Deerfield. A tiny thing. The City faithfully repairs the beach every year. The condo board keeps the masonry solid. The hurricanes come and go. And listen up, sweetheart. I have made a hundred percent in five years. Plus the rental income. I call this a bijoux investment. Contrary to good sense, but loving the darn thing anyway. Like diamonds on a cloudy day.

What’s left for the newly leisured if not Florida? It’s, dimly remembered from poetry class. Or Angkor Wat, the holiday excursion that makes up for somebody’s Vietnam adventure. My dears, there’s a bundle to be made in paradise holidays for the newly fragile (and solidly rich). Overseas is nice, but we’re also looking at big money in where piranha and python roam or the Darwin mystery tour to the. A patina of science on the main dish of snorkeling and those gorgeous women. Spanish adds a taste of the exotic and local enthusiasm runs high at festivals, where we can pretend to be one world. Yes, I’ve placed a few pennies in the Ecuador market. I didn’t want to tell you right away, but I’m really excited. My partners are so good looking. And the banks are great. What more could a want? Am I falling in love, or what? And this is American dollar country. Trust it, but never too long.

Dear Friends,

It has been so hot here lately, and I mean hot. All over. Which brings me to the subject of water. It’s only a matter of time till we have to pay for this tasteless beverage. It’s necessary, I suppose that’s the best we can say for it. And it makes a great mixer with soda, ice, ginger and lime. But there will be a bubble in water one day, the salt sea kind, and dearies we have to be ready to ride the wave and bail before it crashes.

So here’s what we’re going to do. First of all, we’re not talking about water treatment plants, freshwater extraction from cactuses, or any other of the dream machines for engineers. We’re not talking about present tech or finding that elusive breakthrough that will send a company to the stratosphere. No, my lovelies, we’re talking here about public panic. One day the markets will focus all their energy on water and that’s our signal. We want 10% of our portfolios ready to sell for cash. And we throw it at any water business that’s rocketing upward. Don’t investigate the directors. Don’t check their balance sheet. This is projectile investing. Toss it into four companies that are part of the surge.

And when do we sell, me hearties? We sell 25% after we’ve made 25%, and a further 25% after we make another 25%. And so on. You place the automatic puts with your broker if you trouble with one, or watch the bids yourself. When you’ve made 100% on a quarter of your original investment, you’re out. You can sit back, knowing the bubble will burst, having made a round 50%. And, there’s more. With me, there’s always more.

Investors will be selling their good shares to toss into the water pond. As you sell your 25% holdings, you’ll have tremendous values to snap up. Figure that the water market is going to plummet and if you’re a gambler (which I definitely am not), sell short when the upward trend buckles. You’ll likely walk away with another 25%.

So there it is duckie, the 25% solution. The system works with any sudden, intense interest in a resource sector that has a rational justification. Remember the key words: sudden (working on emotion and greed), intense (creates the illusion that investors must act quickly), interest (focused attention on a small part of the market), resources (an objectively limited product), and rationally justified (don’t sweat whether the rationale is correct. Any rationale will lift a wave past the cut-off).

Go for it, darling. And see in St Trop.

Now Dears,

I don’t want you to panic. Everything is as it should be in this best of all possible worlds. I’m healthy, you’re healthy, he she it’s healthy. You know the drill. But I have had a scare, and that’s what prompts this little deviation from my obstinate optimism.

A little palpitation is what it was. I felt a light flutter inside the chest, where the heart is, a little lightness of breath, an airiness, almost an indifference to breathing. I immediately ran to my excellent doctor friend Frank, who I went to school with long ago when I was an innocent…well, that doesn’t matter. But Frank always sees to me. And it turns out that nothing’s wrong. Absolutely nothing. Test after test turned out glowing results. Your Gertie is in fine fettle.

Now, I have to confess I’m 36. No longer in the first flush of youth, I’m mature. Not middle aged. But no longer a gawky teen. I’m starting to wonder about the possibility that one day I might grow old, in the distant future, you understand. And then the diseases will strike. You know, the ones that your grannie has. Rheumatism, cataracts, macular degeneration, the list goes on.

Which takes me to today’s money surge. Healthcare dearies. Healthcare. Don’t forget, when you have those few extra pennies, to toss them into a conglomerate that caters to the geezerheads of the near future, the limping grumbling cantankerous worried boomers. There’s many a chicken there to be plucked, and it’s time to get your dollars into the pot where you can see profits from the care of these declining souls. Always in the background of your portfolio keep the equivalent of insurance. You need a little policy of your own for those inevitable accidents, but beyond that why not take a slice of the action from both sides? If you get sick, you have your disability and accident coverage, but you also profit from the misadventures and catastrophes of others. There’s never an ill wind that blows nobody any good, as they say. And they’re right.

So the message today is keep track of the basics. Watch the action in the healthcare sector. It has good, clean, safe, steady growth written all over it. I have to run just now, because Frank’s at the door. We do have a good time.Make hay, children. Make hay.

Well Dearies,

Thank you, I’m overwhelmed by your lovely response to my suggestions. My cheeks are absolutely blushing. And yes, I have made a lot of money. I’m not lacking, thank you very much, though gifts are always gratefully received. I want to add a thought or two to my last columns. This is in reply particularly to Brad who wrote little me about the war industry’s support for African diamond mines. Yes, I’m in favour of the mines and the armament business. These are sources of vast riches for us. War and luxury: two of the great levers of industry in human history. The support has cut both ways, don’t you agree? The more fighting there is, the more need for weapons. The more demand for weapons, the greater the demand for money, which is what the diamond trade is all about. We have a neat little algorithm here, don’t we Brad? If I had a hundred thousand that wasn’t already pumped into the weapons trade, I’d put it there right now.

All this talk about diamonds and war has made me thirsty, don’t ask me why. I’ve poured myself a lovely red wine and – mmmmmm, yes! – I want to talk about what’s really on our minds. I mean beauty and desire. How do people arouse desire? Beauty. We crave to be the centre of attention, and beauty is one mighty way to get it. There are ways to enhance the gifts nature has given us and the easy methods are cosmetic and surgical. They cost money, but they’re worth every penny. Whatever you think about these products, everyone wants to look beautiful. And the companies that provide us with eternal youth are worth a close look when it comes to smart investment. Beauty is necessary. Men or women, young and old, we all dream about it. We yearn for it. Beauty products are everywhere. There are wrinkle removers, moisturizers, lipsticks and gloss and outliner, mascaras and blush; everything you could want for your skin. And more dramatically, there’s breast enlargement and shaping, tummy tucks, nose sculpture, cheekbone enhancers, waistline alteration, and enlargement of other lovely parts of our bodies. Beauty products and cosmetic surgery, that’s a growth industry if I ever saw one. And there’s still plenty of time to get in on the ground floor as the boomers age and struggle against father time.

Reflect a little. We’ve talked about war and luxury and beauty. What are these but aspects of power. Power is the oldest commodity in the world, even before you-know-what. War gathers power into new hands or cements it in the old. Luxury is the result of power. And beauty is an alternative route to it, a different but time-honoured means of getting it. We can create a little check list if you like. When you’re considering an investment, ask yourself if the industry increases people’s power. Because if it does, you’ll likely make a bundle from it.

Enough serious talk. The wine is gorgeous, and I’m going to sip it while taking a lovely hot bath with the steam rising all around. Good for the skin.

Well Dearies,

Fred, my diamond man, is an absolute charmer. You wouldn’t believe the things we get up to. The spontaneous visits to San Francisco and, just last week, Tahiti (very disappointing, not a patch on the Cook Islands, but there was this fabulous boy at the hotel with a superb tan all over and I’m definitely going back). But the latest? Hold on to your hats. Fred and I bought a house! Yes, you heard right. Frivolous, gad-about little me became a homeowner. I know, I know. You’re asking how a sophisticated demoiselle like myself can own a precious condo off the park and still afford a house. Well listen up. Here’s what happened. We were out in Fred’s big blue convertible, slumming by the interstate, when we passed the perfect spot for a Burger City franchise. So I told Fred that. I said, there should be a Burger City there. And he said, there probably would be pretty soon. So I said, they’ll probably also tear down the little houses on either side for parking. Well, before you could say Richard Nixon, we bought the middle, which was a narrow vacant lot where poor people drank paint thinner at night for fun, and the run-down houses on either side that had wooden planks nailed up over the windows. The interstate exit runs right past. We put up heavy iron fencing with barbs on top. Fred told the police to arrest anyone nearby. And within a month, we had three burger franchises competing to buy our little investment. We went to St Kitts with the profits and lived there for a few months. But I’m back now, with a message for all you adventurers out there: IT’S STILL FRANCHISE TIME IN AMERICA.

Fred spent a lot of our money chasing young women in small bathing suits. It’s not his fault. His ego is fragile. His mother didn’t give him enough self-esteem. He needs to hear women tell him again and again how wonderful he is. This is the fuel men need to become captains of industry. It’s so boring for us women. Mothers deprive their boys of confidence so the next generation of women can fill them up like automobiles at a gas station. It’s a secret women tell each other in our book clubs. Nowadays they’re called book clubs. They used to be sewing circles or feminist meetings or assemblies of the WCTU. We tell each other that women are mechanical gas stations for men to fill them with self-esteem. We’re self-esteem franchises.

Naturally I put my savings into the self-esteem industry, which in English is called high fashion. Look smart, smell good, drive a powerful car, and you will become smart, good and powerful. That’s what all men want. And I’ve made a bundle, dearies. Men will give you their last pennies to make them feel good, the poor boobies.

Listen up, lover. Pearls of financial advice never lose their value. Look for land that’s worthless except for location. Buy it. Better yet, put your cash into the mortgage companies that lend to the companies that invest in that land.

Avoid the bottom end of the economy like the plague. Cleave to the top-of-the-line. Look at the expensive ads, see what your friends in the downtown fitness clubs are saying. Find the messy guys, the guys who don’t fold their clothes, who leave their sports bags strewn like lost luggage all over the locker room. Fred can’t pick up his clothes. He never learned how. I’m making a fortune with Fred. And it works the same way for him. He says I stimulate him. Well, you mustn’t believe what men say. They have two brains, you know, and they aren’t the same size.

Diamonds are still a good buy. What am I saying? They’re undervalued like a Ukrainian mother at a Church picnic. Fred flies all over the world pumping the diamond market and that means the little fellahs are still looking good for our hard-earned. I’m Fred’s reward when he comes home from his adventures, and he tells Gertie absolutely all. Which I pass on to you. I’ll say this for Fred, he’s a generous man. Not a stingy ounce on his big frame. There aren’t many men you can say that about. Most button their lips and tighten their wallets after you-know-what. Fred is always ready with cash and advice. Which is a good test of quality in a man.

But these are worthless tantalizers compared to the really hot tip in my next piece which is about … [CENSORED].

Hi Dearies,

Gertie had a date last night with a wonderful man who bought her, you guessed it, the subject of today’s little exercise for your eyes only (hush, Fred) diamonds. These little precious gems that fund the African arms industry and shoot up geological elevators under high pressure are a great buy and keep well under your mattress. I’m not kidding boys and girls. What you want to do is buy a slice of the companies that dig and produce these tiny crystals, the diamond industry.

Why? The world expert used to be Al Levinson. Check out his articles and books if you want proof. Al knew all there was to know about a girl’s best friend. These stones are underpriced and take less of a hammering in bad times than almost everything else. The “girl’s best friend” moniker came after the world recovered from the dirty thirties, and it took hold because a guy who had diamonds could negotiate them anytime, when everything else was worthless or during inflation. Whatever the world financial situation, you can do it with diamonds. And take my word for it, when you want to impress a lady (even if she’s not a lady) you could do a lot worse than give her a little choker or bracelet or (be a sport) an anklet studded with clean, well-cut stones that flash in the colours of the rainbow (in a restrained loving style because we have class, darling). I don’t want to talk about last night, but let me tell you, Fred was very happy and so was I.

And the companies, not all of them but most, that grow in this little market patch, aren’t particularly scrupulous about who they crawl into bed with. That might not make governments happy or delight their morally cringing backers, but it’s great for the investors. So today, darling, as I pop Tylenols and try to remember the details of where I was last night, I’m letting the sun reflect off these gorgeous stones and thinking five percent of my portfolio isn’t too small to swing into this sector for a month or two. I’m glad I don’t have to work for a living. I like being the diva of love.

So for now, darlings, this is Gertie, your abiding angel of mercy and profit, signing off. (I can’t tell you Fred’s stories last night, because they’re buried under the Champagne he bought me and I promised to take them to the tomb and I always always keep my word, but when he was … hmmmmmmmmm…out of control for the briefest moment I pushed aside a few papers in his briefcase and saw he’d just deposited a s.u.b.s.t.a.n.t.i.a.l sum in two listed diamond companies. So it’s not just me.)