absolut snark

Welcome to The Bay at Mordialloc, where the women without husbands wear Botoxed lips and eyes instead of wedding bling. I idly wonder if they hocked it to pay for their all-in-one cosmetic pilgrimage to Thailand. Tummy Tucker jeans versus Bardot jeans not cut for anyone post-childbirth or thirty. They chew gum and eye the tradies, the bar staff, the lead singer, my husband. Anything male and pulsing.

I estimate that in another twenty minutes (or however soon another glass of chardonnay can decently be necked) they'll be up step-tapping and moshing their bleached split ends in time to the bass.

But wait! Three peacocks, hopefully on break from a wedding (you know, that awkward pause between ceremony and reception where guests wish they'd brought a book and the bridal party dash madly between four locations) arrive.

On-trend cobalt with heinous faux tan, on-trend coral with divine Grecian cleavage-bisecting braided silver straps, and the season's must-have, a maxi that has been gracefully hoiked up five times in four minutes over a too-tight strapless bra cowering beneath an onslaught of orange breasts. There may also have been fascinators. I choose to label it car-crash couture.

Let's not talk about their three boys who roll in wearing real-estate suits and earrings, not a shirt cuff to be seen between them. Who to blame for this surfeit of colortexturestyle? Is it the sartorial manifestation of the instant gratification generation, everything now at once in one dress? I think I prefer the Tummy Tucker jeans.