Mr Peppermint Grove

Peppy Grove sets the standard in Perth elitism. The resident’s modesty remains buried under a pile of old money, and their reluctance to mingle with Perth riff-raff is so prevalent that they are represented by their very own local government.

What is good for the Claremont goose is not good for the Peppermint gander, and the residents delight in ordering their staff around while slowly wealth-urbating on the silver spoon jammed firmly up their affluent cash-holes.

Chris is the sort of blue-blooded toff that prefers to be called “Christopher”. Each item that adorns his body is arrogantly referenced by the material’s exotic origin, “this cardigan is Tibetan Cashmere”, so Jeeves knows to be careful when passing the cognac.

His suede loafers scream “young Liberal turd-muncher”, and his gold family ring seals the deal. His shirt remains tucked as comfortably as his self-assurance that generational wealth is the most important thing a man can possess in life.

Normally, Christopher only leaves the Shire to attend work and occasionally a polo function. Today, he must put his AMG in harm’s way and visit a client in Applecross.

He stops at a set of traffic lights and almost has a heart attack when a windscreen washer slaps his hepatitis-ridden squeegee on his windscreen, “my word”.

Christopher has legitimately never met a poor person and freezes like a Whistler ski slope. The angry windscreen wiper bangs on the passenger window, sending poverty-shock waves through Christopher’s trust-funded soul.

The sheer horror of the ordeal has left Christopher in pieces. He calls mumsy who is happily nursing her second breakfast gin and sobs, “mother, he was awful, and I think I may’ve run over his foot!”

His mother tries to feign the last remaining drops of motherly care, “oh darling, how dreadful, is the car OK?” Luckily for Christopher, his car is fine, and he figures, a crushed foot is part & parcel of the poor lifestyle decisions that people south of the river make in life. “I’m sure he is used to that sort of malarkey, what a vile man”.

Given the sinister clash he had with reality today, Christopher assembles his money team for a few scotches on his smoking deck. He describes his fracas with the “wild man of Canning Highway”.

Cedric hugs Christopher in that closeted way that fancy-boys do, “they really should have signs or something, warning about this ghastly business”. Suddenly, his ever-influential father busts onto the deck booming like a drunk Royal Earl, “so you got his foot then, did you? Bloody marvellous old boy!”

The group drink scotch and share stories of their close encounters with the great unwashed. Later, Christopher curls up on his 2000 thread Egyptian cotton sheets and says his nightly prayer, “dear lord, we pray for the return of door to door milk and rubbish services in our Shire”. He rests easy in his top tax bracket bubble.