Not that I have an apartment in Knightsbridge and wear Louis Vuitton shoes, no, but to the taxpayer, I am worth a lot of money.
Every trainee fast jet pilot in the last 7 years has come through a school that I have been an instructor on. Training each pilot has cost the taxpayer £4 million and there has been about 30 of them per year.
Quick maths says that I’ve been involved in £840 million worth of training.
And my own training costs, well I could only hazard a guess. There aren’t many instructors who train instructors (how to teach other instructors) how to teach the students.
It gets complicated after that but, because I commanded the team that did just this, I know there’s not many.
But ‘illusions of grandeur’ and humour aside, I turn 42 this year and I really need to start thinking about finding another job. Years of teaching air combat have convinced my neck and back that they would prefer to become mattress testers but I reckon they could still be involved in some pretty fierce typing if the right consultancy firm came along.
My desire to stay in the cockpit meant that further promotion passed me by like a ship in the night but I am not bitter. As I approach 18 years of service I have only worn the shackles of a desk job once - in the job I am currently in and even now I still hold a cockpit for a couple of weeks of the month.
I am not complaining.
When I left the Royal Navy, after the decommissioning of the Sea Harrier left many of us without anything to fly, the RAF reached out and picked up a few of us waifs and strays.
And in the RAF, a finer employer you could not find and, if you’ve ever looked even a little bit skywards, then apply to join because it is as far from a regular job as you will ever find.
The crew room is a bit like the old Top Gear, just with fighter jets and less money.