Plastic Angie and the children of the corn or Angels with dirty faces.

People ask me why I hate South Yarra so much and I struggle to explain myself properly. I've been trying to thing of an appropriate metaphor or simile I think the best thing that I can do is try and describe one one of my customers whom I think signifies everything wrong with that area, everything sick about that awful fucked up place.

So now we're going to talk about Angie. I have no idea of how old Angie was, she'd had so much plastic surgery done that it was almost impossible to tell. I'd put her neck and her hands at about 50, her tits looked about 25 and her face was not so much a face but a pastiche an unusual collage of abstract conceptions, of what lips were, of what a cheek should look like, a different interpretation of eyes. In my opinion she was just hideous to look at. You know that game you play as a kid, Exquisite Corpse, you know, where you draw a head then fold the paper over then someone draws the next bit and so on until you end up with some weird fish woman with bicycles for hands? Yeah, well it was like that but just for the face. I guess at one stage she must have been someones' trophy wife, now she was vainly trying to claw her former looks back, trying to avert the tide of time with the scalpel. It was sad and it was one of those situations where a persons psychology was laid bare on their face with no hiding it at all, where their inner turmoils were such that they had now become outer turmoils.

And that ain't all. She also had triplets, boys, with white blond hair and empty blue eyes. They would have been about 6 years old. There is no doubt in my mind that they were the result of some fertility package, some IVF gone super right. They were weird kids and they never wore shoes. Angie would just leave them in the kids section to play by themselves while she would read self help books in the cafe. The triplets would run riot scaring the shit out other other kids. The never went to school and they alienated even the adults. They seemed to be like those wild children that turn up every 50 years or so, those one who have been raised by wolves or chickens or some shit. They were always filthy and they always had food smeared all over their faces.

These kids were weird. If they were paintings their eyes would follow you around the room, if they were statues you would not have them in your garden, let alone your house.

They were strange and unnatural and, I think its obvious by now, the whole scene gave me the fucking creeps. I tell you, typing this now some of my hairs stand on end when I think about how fucked up the whole situation was, this crazy Barbie who have been left out in the sun, these genetic aberrations running around like their very existence weren't no thing, I mean, how much much they have cost to produce and for what? There is no doubt that she was terrible mother and that their lives were wasted from the get go, I imagine pickings up a newspaper, actually, I'm more likely to go to The Age but anyway, one day I imagine consulting some news source and seeing some crazy story about some wild gang of triplets who have kidnapped some chick and endured her to hours of torture and rape, I imagine I'll read this story and I won't go 'huh?, like, 'really?'', I'll go 'huh', with a finality that means 'of course, I knew it all along'.