Ms Claremont Quarter

Today, Jodi has opted for the classic “cool weather cougar” look: head to toe in Lululemon, a Moncler puffer vest and a handbag that’s worth more than your education. Her pleasant musk and rattling jewellery attract the attention of men like the pied piper of creeping perves.

A young teen fixes her a coffee while diving deep into a pool boy-esque fantasy in his mind. Likewise, a well-dressed property developer executes a shameless turn & stare to satisfy himself that Jodi is indeed the complete package. She’s turning heads like a turkey farmer before Christmas.

Let no one say that Jodi isn’t at the cougar ranch for non-essential matters. She is on a mission to buy throw rugs and small ornamental pillows that annoy the living hell out of her family.

She nonchalantly browses the goods at Bed, Bath & Table while periodically checking her cougar-gram.

Out of the corner of her eye she spots an unwelcome stray wearing inferior active wear and Ugg Boots. Jodie stares at the intruding riff raff like she looks at her empty glass of Vodka & Soda, she texts her friend, “since when did the Quarter become the Motorplex ew”.

Suddenly, a pack of boganlings burst out of the toilet and run to their mother. It is like a mummy blog has come to life. Jodi is traumatised.

A Big W kids fashion bomb had gone off and she is disoriented by the internal ringing of working class. She needs a glass of champagne to wash away the bitter after taste of poverty.

Jodi jumps in her Range Rover and meets her friend in Claremont. While checking her make-up she backs into a trolley boy. If only she could hear his minimum waged cries for help over the sound of Adele blaring from her system.

While catching eyes from Polo in the City looking trust funders she remembers a pesky errand she had. Not to worry, she calls her daughter, “have the school order you a taxi darling”.

She turns to her friends, “the au pair needed to fly back to Malaysia for a funeral, you just can’t find good help these days”.

On her way home, she swings past the Boatshed to buy some affluent-meat. It’s pretty similar to the sort of peasant turd-steaks you buy, except, well, not povo, ya know?


Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?