It’s 7:00 am on a Sunday morning and Hayley is annoying the living shit out of her housemates. She is tearing around their townhouse getting ready for a trip to the local farmers market.
Up early, not hungover and heading to a farmers market: yep its a triple-pronged smug attack that can only be likened to the facial expression of Martin Shkreli on MD caps.
Hayley has dressed in activewear leggings, a green pastel singlet and her hair fashioned into a tight pony-tail – the official outfit of the person who cranks a blender at 6am.
She jumps in “Betsy” her beloved Barina and drives towards the markets. She arrives at 7 and relies on the soothing tones of some generic pop rubbish to calm her down while navigating an intensely busy car park.
She stalks a small Asian woman who is dragging a heavily overburdened trolley back to her car. Hayley sees her pop her boot and load the vegetables in.
She is overcome by the relieved “I’ve found a park” feeling and checks her lip gloss in the rearview mirror accordingly. “You are kidding me”, the lady shuts the boot and then heads back towards the markets. Hayley becomes Mark Morrison and shoots the woman a “Return of the Mack stare, “you liiiiiiiied toooo meeee”.
Finally, she nabs a park and enters the arena of crowded browsing and delightful shrieking of busy greengrocers. Hayley grabs a basket and starts loading it with cheap vegetables and fruit. There seems to be a kerfuffle at the mushroom display.
Some bearded tosser in a North Face vest is demanding to know whether the Enoki mushrooms are “organic or like not organic”. He is struggling to get an answer, and a crowd of angry customers are beginning to turn on him. “Just buy the mushrooms, dickhead”.
Finally, Hayley has navigated her way through the most populated area on Earth with $45 worth of fresh vegetables. She is flustered and frustrated by the chaotic battle she just endured.
Nevertheless, she poses for a selfie with her bounty in a recycled cardboard box: “Sunday Markets <3 #Organic #WhereAreYa?” Yeh, smug it up Hayley, and we’ll all forget about the horrible red mist flashes you were having about pushing an elderly woman and throat-palming children to get to the beetroot. <3 that.
Hayley has worked up quite a hunger and snacks on a stalk of celery. It’s all a macabre charade though, she is really gunning for some dirty, sugar encrusted pastries to gnaw on like Golem at a wet market.
Once she is away from prying eyes, she feeds mercilessly. A small drop of jam on her Lorna Janes is the only evidence of her scandalous skidmark on the underwear of clean living.
Perhaps her housemates could’ve exposed her too if they weren’t hung as fark and gripping their bottles of Maximus like it was their only tether to the realm of sobriety.