I've never made a pretty penny on property and my only stockmarket stabs both ended in tears. (A secret gold mine in the hills of Russia, you say? A rigged auction? Well, heck, that sounds watertight. Here, take my firstborn's inheritance!)
I don't think I'm dumb (dumb people never do, right?), but I am certainly luckless in matters financial and my timing stinks.
Still, hope springs eternal, and so it was that I recently found myself in the audience at an investment seminar, ostensibly to unlock the hidden secrets of wealth creation but also because it was free and because I like to escape my children at every opportunity.
These seminars are full to the rafters with people like me - hopeful types who can barely prepare their own tax return but think the formula for untold wealth might be able to fit on a single foolscap page.
Our host was one of those greased-up, smug fellows - a man who insisted he'd made his fortune in property but who also had to apparently keep flogging his how-to DVDs. He peppered his spray with anecdotes that someone, somewhere, once told him were witty (the same person, no doubt, who told Kochie he was colourful enough for TV), shared a few property pearls of wisdom and rammed it all home with an invitation to join his circle of wealth. Subtext: show me the money.
No doubt the guy has some street cred, but here's what he can't escape and what we all need reminding sometimes: there are no shortcuts.
Hard work alone won't make you rich. Intellect won't get you there. Luck will only get you part of the way and only if you know how to use it. High-risk exposure is an option but only if you've got plenty to risk in the first place. And of course none of the above is any guarantee of happiness.
Yet I always find myself looking for financial inspiration at this time of year; something devilishly clever to wipe that smirk off my accountant's face.
Yes, it's tax time again and I swear it rolls around more often than Christmas. Certainly I see my accountant far more than Santa these days, though both bearded men love to berate me for the sins of the past year.
Maybe tax time only feels like it's always upon me because it takes at least 12 months to get my annual receipts together. I have a lot to claim. Nay, I have a lot that I try to claim. See, in my world, hope might spring for eternal but I've got the receipt.
Well folks, it's the Australian way. We must, if we are true to our criminal ancestry, at least try to screw the tax man. As the late Kerry Packer once said, "Anyone who pays more tax than they have to in this country is a #*@ing idiot." Of course Kerry ultimately paid his dues in other ways, but this is not a column about karma.
It's a column about belief, sweet delusional belief, the belief that rides roughshod over logic. It's the belief that a bloke with a million-dollar grin and a how-to DVD might have all the answers. That when there's more money up for grabs in Gold Lotto, there are more chances to win (even though twice the number of people enter). That a hot tip from the owner of a horse might be an excellent piece of impartial information. That maybe your accountant will find a goldmine loophole for you this year. That your real estate agent just nailed you a great deal.
See you at the next investment seminar.
Carrie Cox is a journalist, author and mother who one day hopes to finish a cup of coffee while it's still hot.
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