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I met a virago in Mykonos in July who filled me with horror.
I was terrified of discussing her afterwards out of fear of cancellation, that is, until The Donald dodged the bullet and remounted the throne in the ‘Land of the Freebie and the Home of the Depraved’ (compliments to Taki in the Spectator). Let’s hope that’s all the mounting he does going forward. He is an old man, who should preserve his energy for late-night online rants.
Her hair was platinum blonde, and she was of an indeterminate age, particularly in the soft light of a Grecian dusk. Her tan reminded me of Donald’s. Someone must have spent an hour doing her hair. ‘Barbie’ was the box she had ticked at her plastic surgeon’s rooms and all the high-end specifications were on show. She was dressed like a 16-year-old and didn’t look out of place among the transvestites at the club we danced at after dinner. Someone mentioned she had jumped more fences than Gonda Beatrix. Her emasculated husband quivered beside her like a Pointer, occasionally sneaking a look at Bloomberg on his phone under the table.
I had the misfortune of sitting next to her at a dinner one night at one of the flash restaurants on the harbour. Her voice was nasal and reminded me of some of the farcical whines that have done the rounds on the Gram. It was turned up to maximum volume. She didn’t bother to eat – it got in the way of the monologue – but she made time for at least three visits to the powder room, from which she returned, invigorated.
The lifestyle she described was at the extreme end of sybaritic. Her older children had been sent to boarding school in the KZN Midlands. Cape Town’s schools just didn’t meet her standards, and besides, why wouldn’t you put two thousand kilometres between yourself and the brats whose upbringing you have outsourced since day zero? It meant a lot more time to yourself.
The unfortunate laat lammetjie was under the care of an au pair. When he reached seven, he was to be packed off to boarding school too. By the looks of her husband’s carry-on at the club when she wasn’t looking, the child was likely to have been fathered by either the Padel coach, the golf pro, or two or three foreign chaps during a blurry bit of Africa Burn.
She expressed extreme stress at managing the au pair, a string of housekeepers, the chef and the holiday houses in St Francis and the Midlands while trying to enjoy her holiday in Greece. To cope, she self-medicated with a variety of prescription drugs, depending on her mood. While at home she played Padel every day along with an hour or two on the Watt bike. Regular sessions of Pilates and various exercise laboratories were forced into the schedule to keep her sane and in prime physical condition.
She hadn’t worked since she had given up her role as a model on her 22nd birthday. Giovani’s delivered weekly. During lockdown, she had bought the entire supply of caviar from that Greenpoint delicatessen just to help out. A stylist was kept on retainer to keep her in fashion. Champagne was all she drank, preferably Cristal.
She admitted to occasional bouts of boredom, but this had been cured by Instagram and YouTube which were consumed ravenously and at all times. She was considering becoming an influencer although it sounded like quite hard work putting in a couple of hours a day for a few thousand dollars a day. All this was uttered in a matter-of-fact manner and without any sense of irony.
During a minor break in her stream of consciousness, I asked if she had considered volunteering or charity to alleviate the boredom. Or perhaps even raising money for conservation. Charity stinks she said. And climate change is a fallacy designed by NGO types to fund their bunny-hugging conferences in exotic locations.
I was triggered by it all, but what annoyed me the most was that she carried herself and bored us as if she had achieved something significant and was someone to be reckoned with merely because she wore all the badges of success in today’s society. She didn’t mention her education, so I assumed the worst. Surely it would have been highlighted if it was worth it.
How have evolved societies led people like this (and their legions of acolytes) to consider themselves successful – just because they were born looking good and had managed to latch onto someone with money who was looking for a trophy? I am horrified that one of my children may consider this as an appealing way to spend their life.
There is no doubt that the work of stay-at-home moms and dads is relentlessly hard. And I am full of admiration for all of them. Gatkruiping on the corporate treadmill is way easier. I tried the stay-at-home dad gig for a week, and I required hospitalisation by the end. If you can afford it, can handle the emotional and physical strain, and you are reasonably together, it makes sense for one of you to bring up your own children. Why else would you have bothered to have them? And while I have used a feminine antagonist in this example, the free rider is often a man. Families come in many forms these days.
A lady from England was sitting on the other side of me. She looked exhausted. She had spent most of the monologue in open-mouthed horror. While our friend was visiting the powder room with the lady from England’s husband, she mentioned she was a managing director at an investment bank, while her husband was a barrister. They were working themselves to the bone and ruining their relationship while trying to pay their kids public school fees. She spent her life working or working on a train while commuting to and from work.
“Although I think I have had an epiphany,” she said while her husband emerged from the powder room grinding his jaw. “I think we will move to Constantia and send the children to school in the KZN Midlands. My hubby can carry on working and I will take up the lifestyle of our new friend.”
“Don’t you think you will miss having a purpose?” I asked. “You know ‘Mankind’s search for meaning’ and all that? Viktor Frankel?”
“F… purpose,” she said. “At last, I will have a life.”
