Survivior: It’s time to go… Nick

Ah winter, I love winter. The time of year where some of the older, more problematic clients shuffle off to warmer climes.

Chasing the last whisps of youth, they set off in their GPS-equipped Lexus 4WD with a spare set of teeth in the glove box and a six-pack of syringes with injectable Viagra — just in case they get lucky.

You usually get a message left on the answering machine when the temperature’s plummeted to a level resembling the available amount on your margin loan. Ostensibly, it’s to keep you informed of developments, but it’s more likely just a way of rubbing your nose in it.

“Nick, Ron here. Just to let you know Myrtle died three weeks ago. Bit unexpected really, as was the brake failure and the cliff for Myrtle…

“Anyway, I’ve decided to get away up north in the ‘new’ Lexus and ‘new’ Jayco Pop-Top. If anything happens to my investments, like they go down at all you bastard, give me a call on the ‘new’ satellite phone. And by the way, if a Tiffany answers, tell her nothing. Tiffany’s helping me get over the grieving stage. See you in October.”

Like, as if we care.

What we really need is a hook-up with our friends in the medical profession. You know, kind of a Big Brother set-up. Imagine, “It’s time to go … Myrtle.”

You will all be pleased to know that I have made the first contact on your behalf with our colleagues in medicine.

I was the sole financial planning representative at the General Practitioners’ Conference held in Sydney recently.

It’s quite an experience wandering through an exhibition where they are shoving drugs at you saying, “here, try this”. Kind of like the pub Jackson’s on George in Sydney without the music.

Anyway, I collected three tubes of Rectophosphorene, which at 200ml per tube looks impressive. Still not quite sure what it does, but I’m thinking bums that glow in the dark.

I also had a few freebie tests conducted on me. Let’s face it, four hours on Virgin Blue drinking red wine and eating their ‘hot dinner’ (seems to have been a mix up with the ‘ablution cart’) is bound to mess up the blood chemistry.

Apparently I am 38 weeks pregnant, have more human growth hormone in me than the whole Chinese swimming team and could probably spray paint the entire Sydney Harbour Bridge with my blood — from the Opera House.

At the same time though, with a badge that says ‘speaker’ and not ‘delegate’, you had the distinct impression that wandering too close to some of the exhibition booths off the main drag could see you turn up as part of the late night anatomy demonstrations.

Anyway, the point of the exercise was to stand up there and tell 180 doctors why having a financial planner on a desert island is more important than not having one. Those who the doctors thought were okay could stay on the island.

It was a persuasive argument.

I told them about the need to plan, the need for hope, the need to set objectives and goals. I told them how, with a thorough knowledge of efficient market hypothesis, portfolio optimisation and a touch of behavioural finance, there was hope for everyone on the desert island including the sick, the poor, the lonely.

I told them that how, as planners, yeah, we had seen the light, understood the depravity of high MERs, had reformed. Indeed, we think Catherine Wolthuizen is great too! Guys, I gave them a story that brought tears to my eyes.

They told me to bugger off.

In fact, I made it to the end of round one. So fast was my exit from the island that I didn’t even get a chance to reciprocate their hospitality with a set of NAB foam stress balls collected at the last convention (surely someone has a use for them).

As I made my way back across the Nullarbor on Virgin Blue sitting in Row 32 next to the galley (I think — the odour was the same as my ‘hot meal’), I wondered if Ron and Tiffany had any room in the Lexus. “It’s time to go… Ron.”

Nick Bruining is principal of N.C. Bruining & Associates and a media commentator.