Continuing my deep dive into Sydney’s social scene, Kathryn and I are at an arty event, hob-nobbing with the Eastern suburbs glitterati. We’re having a coffee and chatting just before it’s due to kick off. Three hookers walk in.
Kathryn turns round to see what I’m looking at and her inbuilt tart-o-meter readings go nuclear. Setting her fashion laser to ‘death stare’, she analyses the feedback and pronounces ‘hmmm, the trophy wives have arrived’.
They enter the room in a gaggle (or maybe a goggle if you’re a bloke), lots of bare skin, manes of glossy, flicky hair, a bit of frou-frou happening on the fashion front and not much clothing per square inch – what there was SQUEEZED into tiny sizes (you weren’t kidding anyone – I was going to say ‘girls’ but that would have been inaccurate – ladies); casually expensive clothes chosen with a lot of care to look, umm, casually expensive.
Everything was pert and firm but they had the featureless, immobile faces – I’ve never seen botox en masse before.
The skinniest was clearly top tart; the emaciation hidden to some extent by fake tan. The others were wannabes; thin by proximity – except that never quite works does it? It just ends up like ‘who’s the heifer standing next to the skinny chick?’
They spent their time looking around to see if anyone was looking at them, and competitively not eating.
An interesting species to look at, but as a bloke I know put it, ‘like talking to a table’.