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You know the kind, botox, house with a view, friends in high places, bodies covered in other peoples’ names. They are the social climbers. Only friends with those in the know! They don’t mean to be exclusive, it’s just how they are… daaarling!

The social climber is the flip side of a salt. They live for new stuff, for beautiful possessions for exciting people moments. They care about what they look like, they fear old age… a wrinkle what is that? They tolerably smile at those below their league, the people who rent, or own apartments or small houses! What the? They are self-made people, except for the fact they have married ‘well’, were born ‘well’ and well, have a top notch job! The hair is always perfect and the clothes match! Ta da! There’s not a hint of Kmart about them, everything they buy is from a real shop at top retail dollar! A different kettle of fish altogether.

Martin Macintosh-Jones married Taylaeah Jahyene (Taylor Jane). This chick is the essence of high class Shark Bay and this is where we start our story.

Mid morning on a perfect Autumn day. Latte in hand Taylaeah J grabs her Judith Leiber snakes skin clutch and high heels it out of the door. Her life is rush, rush, rush! The kids were ‘coached’ to school at sparrow’s this morning while poor Mrs Mac-Jones slept. The nanny tip toed around while Taylaeah slept off last night’s wine tasting club! As always, post-WTC is always such a NIGHTMARE! In such spheres spitting wine out is frowned upon as it’s always about the full experience and getting a bit tipsy of course.

Coffee numero trois and a lie in is a good start (no one sleeps these days!) Off to the meeting. A mansion smack bang on Shark Bay yadda yadda yadda. As she slips into her silver Audi TT, Taylaeah sighs deeply. Life can be so dull. Another day, another mansion to make over. She’s done marriage, friendship, career and the kids. Is this it? Still too young to get involved in charity, that’s for the tweed wearing facelift gals. Not there yet, though she’s pushing 40.

Car starts and tilts up the ridiculously steep driveway. Off to the bay. TJ hates going into the bay itself. There’s always someone from school there. She’s much too busy to stop and chat like the other mothers. She has appointments and more important matters to attend. They simply do not understand. Sure, they’re friendly enough, but there’s no more room at the inn, her cards are full!

Arrival at the mansion. Greeted by client’s man. A charming fellow in a tolerable suit and new-styled hair… 1920s or a touch of the 40’s? It’s hard to tell these days. She enters, taking stock of all around. Such a mess. Where to start? The kitchen. Quaint turn of the 21st century structure. White, white, white, how dull. Time to get down to business. Meeting starts with a glass of champers. TJ remembers why she loves this job! But the emptiness of her former sigh is magnified by the stark, drabness of this house.

Post-meeting TJ carries her sorry old self to her exclusive cafe/beautician/plastic surgeon/ bar. This is where her hombres sit and discuss life, money and connections. Today Left Leonie is in. Called ‘left’ because of her endless list of husbands getting jack of her and leaving. She has a mouth like an open sewer and a heart of steel. Leonie was born rich and has no compassion for those below. TJ pretends to be entertained by this social leech but in the end concludes that she is just another heartless socialite with more money than Hosni Mubarak and not a friend in sight.

 

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Welcome to semi-fictional Abolon, population 10685 and counting. This is a town with a rich history of stuff, mixed stuff with a whole load of weird, normal and undercover normal people.

We start our story with a list. It is basically a history of the town from the arrival of the pasty white man to today.

  • White man arrives, looks around, scratches his bottom and declares, “This looks awright!” He pulls out a length of canvas, a couple of poles and declares in his most declaring-est voice, “Looks like mine now!”
  • A few more white men and women and wee children arrive, look around and squeak, “Eeeek pappa, where’s the lavatory?” Silence.
  • More white people arrive and decide to set up homes then a little town grows in the shadow of the awesome beach that has captured the imagination of a whole 60 people (including women and children).
  • Town grows as the sport of ‘wave riding’ or surfing takes off. The young surfers become older men and the Easties move in!
  • TODAY – a mild to warm 28 degrees celcius with a slight breeze and a whole wack bam chunk of humidity. Thanks March, I thought better of you.

We now formally begin our soapie. It is a house from the 1940’s that sits on a semi-main road in the shadow of make believe mansions and old-now-new dwellings. In this house is a family. They are the Vatsoons. A funny little bunch of characters that are rich in laughter and occasional tantrums. Money is slightly scarce but they scrape through thanks to the generosity of a couple of relatives who live high on the hill.

The community they live in is a funny little place. You’ve got your filthy rich, your rich, your mainstream, your hippies, your backpackers, your tradies, the old salts and the weirdos (who could possibly fit in any previous section). The shops have moved with the times. Some could say they have gone backwards in charm but progressed with slight snobbery and la-de-da.

The school is the centre of the parental universe. And here we take up our story. Tis an Autumn afternoon. Cars wrestle for a single carpark, horns blare and shopkeepers giggle at the fuss being made over one space. Women and children meander (if on time) or walk/run (if they’re not) to the school gates. Children are dragged across roads as parents unthinkingly jay-walk them to the nearest gate as if nothing bad could ever happen in this town.

The playground is a somewhat humorous mix of people. Dads are dotted around staring off into space. Afterall, this used to be a woman’s sphere, what the heck is a dad supposed to do in a playground these days? Mothers natter or sit off on silver seats by themselves hoping against hope that someone will single them out for a spot of nat. Then the bell rings and all hell breaks loose. Bags are thrown unzipped on the ground whilst the little green clones of children sprint, pointing finger guns at each other.

So now you know the setting, the town, the vague list of vague characters. Come with me as we embark on a semi-fictional soapie featuring characters I may or may not know.

This was Part One!

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