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.