Like Dick Cheney, I am this week at an undisclosed location. There are only two differences between the Veep and me.

One, he keeps his whereabouts secret to protect himself; I do so to protect someone else. And two, he's a (ahmm, cough) swine and I'm just a regular swine.

I'm house-sitting for friends in what must be one of the finest homes in Bermuda, if not the world. You might describe it, I suppose, as a four-bedroom apartment.

I have a one-bedroom apartment, but that's where the similarities end. To say that both the noxious hellhole I call home and the Shangri-La I'm sitting are both accommodation is true only in the same way as saying that a pogo stick and a Rolls Royce are both transportation.

My benefactor is a top man in the global reinsurance industry. His company has thousands of employees, and he's one of the top ones. His home reflects the high level of contribution he makes to his company's forward motion. It has taken unrelenting hard work for most of a lifetime to reach this exalted position. His wife deserves just as much credit.

Although the house has the classic Bermudian look externally, inside it is strictly 21st century. The house doesn't have light switches; it has control panels with settings for "reading", "parties", "romance" and what have you.

The view is unparalleled (water, of course) and the accoutrements and furnishings are among the best this world has to offer.

So why am I writing this at my house? Why did I sleep in my appalling apartment last night? And what have I learned from house-sitting this week?

I'm at my house because of the familiar and comfortable sense of being in my own home, and because I can't operate the 42-inch digital TV at my friend's house, with the World Cup rugby package and its five remote control units.

I'm at home because there's work to do and my desk is a better place to do it than the fanciest den in the world, despite its broadband connection and the gold bars lying around all over the place. Writing requires concentration, and it's hard to concentrate in paradise.

I slept at home last night because I am a realist. If I'd spent a week in the comfort of a breezy room with lights that gradually lull you to sleep, coming back to my house and its crumbling walls and psychotic neighbours might very well prove intolerable. My life trajectory hasn't led me to the luxury lifestyle. Now that I have access to it, I find that I don't really want it. That's good, isn't it?

I'm not saying that I wouldn't like to live in such a place, if it could be done without making the necessary sacrifices. I'm not saying I couldn't get used to permanent hot water, having a floor, and a patio larger than France. I just don't want the hassles that go with it.

Here's what else I've learned. I have a couch; my friend has several. Mine is a 10-year-old futon; his are all made of leather and other fine materials. Mine sits three, at a pinch; his would seat dozens. Mine's jammed up against a rotting wall; his are perfectly placed in the style of Better Homes & Gardens. And yet … you only have one rear end. You can only sit in one place at one time.

You might be happier sitting in luxury, but a sitting person is a sitting person. Providing you're not calling jail or Victoria Park home, I contend that there is very little practical difference between my fantastically successful friend and me. This is not mere justification, since I would plainly rather be at my shack. Home, it seems, is truly where the heart is.

A deeper psychological business may be at play. Sitting in my friend's house, looking out at the vista, or swimming in the pool, it is hard to feel hard done by. I suspect that motivation would be a problem if I were that successful. If I had it all, what would be the point of working? And how would I retain my sense of moral outrage at the way the world works?

Look at Sting, for example. His creative muse went straight out of the window, along with his band, when he started to be successful. Now he is a major polluter with dozens of children, and a totally self-satisfied pain in the neck. There but for the grace of my economic circumstances, I'm sure, would go I.

Not so with my friend, who is one of the hardest-working people I've ever met. Apparently being at the top isn't enough for him. He wants to stay at the top, or perhaps climb even topper.

Draw your own conclusions. If you want to make the sacrifices and compromises necessary to succeed; if you are capable of consistently making the tough decisions; if your goal is not just to make ends meet, but to do so in spectacular style; then it is possible to have the best of everything. If you lack any of those qualifications, learn to be happy with what you have.

William DeVane put it perfectly in a song he wrote 30 years ago.

Though you may not drive a great big Cadillac …

You may not have a car at all,

but remember, brothers and sisters, you can still stand tall.

Just be thankful for what you've got.

* * *

Speaking of drivers, here is a novel concept for just about everyone who uses Bermuda's roads. If you concentrate very hard the next time you're out on a bike or in your car, you will see a yellow line, or sometimes a white one, painted on the middle of the road.

The idea is that you have to stay on the left of that line, all the time, whether you're just cruising along the straight or going around corners. This is because you are not the only person in the world that matters. I know this is a difficult idea to grasp, but try.

If someone is stopped in your lane, you can't just pull out and force people going in the other direction into a ditch. Well, you can, and you often do, but you mustn't any more.

I understand that you don't feel you should be held responsible for anything you do, but sooner or later, you're going to get killed, either in an accident, or by an irate motorist who also thinks he or she owns the road. So wise up and drive on the left, would you? Thank you so much.