One of the big bosses was down, executive director of blah blah. Another one of the incompetents, with a 6 figure salary. The big boss lives in Double Bay, in Sydney. I can't help but think of it whenever I see her.
There is no love lost between her and I. When I was first introduced to her, she couldn't even take her eyes off her Blackberry long enough to look me in the eye. She couldn't take her eyes of her Blackberry at all, instead, she offered me her limp hand, as a consolation prize for her attention.
Ah Double Bay. I used to hang out in Double Bay with Mark and our mate J. Mark and J worked in television together. We had fun, being silly, playing ladies in the Double Bay coffee houses, slagging off all the Double Bay Matrons, after they'd come over to say hello.
J was born and bread there, it is her stomping ground.
"That one cheats on her husband with young boys she pays money to," said J. "Very young boys." I looked at J, the corners of her mouth curled down. "School bags, school uniforms," she said, raising her eyebrows.
"That one has uncontrollable thrush." I listened to the nylon of her stockings rub, as I watched her sashay away, her big arse wrapped tightly, shaped like the rear of a fifties caravan, moving like the rear of a Rottweiler.
"That one is a self-harmer." J shook her head as if it was hopeless. She looked so nice, normal even. But then I realised that she had on neck to knee clothing, once J had pointed it out, on a 30 something degree day.
The Double Bay matrons, with their hair set like helmets, would slink off, in that way that only Double Bay matrons move, chin out, bags clutched, chest out, arse tight, like time means nothing and we'd talk like children, behind our hands, about them.
Ah Double Bay? I must go back and have coffee there, some day and reminisce.
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