So, $40 million. Sounds like a lot, right? But here’s the thing: if James May lost it all tomorrow, he’d still be the same guy who drinks tea, complains about loud noises, and explains how a suspension bridge works to a baffled dinner companion. He’s not defined by his money; he’s defined by his beautiful, baffling obsession with everything slow and mechanical.
You and I might never have his bank account. But we can all learn from him: find your weird thing, get paid for it, and wear the same jacket for twenty years. That’s the real wealth. And honestly? If you can afford a decent block of cheddar and a working tractor, you’re doing pretty well too.
Just don’t ask him to cook you dinner. No amount of money can fix that.
