They say you're nobody in the Eastern Suburbs if your diamond engagement ring is fewer than three carats, which marks me out as council-estate done (reasonably) good. I'd seen no evidence of this so far, not until I took Ella to the Westfield at Bondi Junction this morning to buy her some shoes.
The Clarks shop operates a ticket waiting system much like the deli in Sainsburys. The lady at number 15 complained loudly that Tabitha's last pair of shoes had lasted less than six weeks before shooting two looks in my direction; the first at my face, the second at my engagement ring. "And???" I wanted to say, but I didn't. My ring is one carat. My daughter could never have been called Tabitha, though I'd consider it for a cat.
In the food hall at DJ's we bought a cake for Darren's birthday. The cake counter has to be seen to be believed. None of the cakes were safe with Ella around, though she managed only a modest haul of a raspberry friand. At the next table, an olive-skinned woman in Dior glasses fed toasted crumpet to her designer-togged cherub. I found myself checking out her carats, which were shiny and plentiful. I'm becoming a Sydneysider. You should see my driving.
3 comments:
My wedding ring cost £50 from a little shop in Hong Kong. My diamonds might be fake but at least my orgasms are real...
but most people don't look at your orgasms in a shop. Perhaps you could get a t-shirt printed, "my diamonds might be fake" on the front, and the rest on the back.
I could have been called Tabitha you know.
but you weren't, thankfully for you
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