Much like cyborgs in horror films, they slither among us, camouflaged as humans. But, brush against one and you risk being infected; brave eye contact and you may get recruited. Here’s how to spot a specimen of one of these species — mingling and multiplying with ferocity — before it withers your self esteem to ashes.
“I just can’t put on weight, no matter how hard I try,” Mrs P pinches crumbs off a cracker she’s been teasing for the better part of an hour.
Others stop mid-gulp on their third deep-fried jalebi that’s dribbling hot syrup, guilt chewing at their intestines. The jalebi tastes like straw. Deep-fried, artery-clogging, high calorie straw.
“It’s depressing to be so thin,” Mrs P moans, patting her flat derrière. The others suck in their stomachs and do instant Kegels on their backsides simultaneously, like chewing gum about to pop. She continues, “Nothing fits me. I would love to look as... blooming as the rest of you.”
Hark the perfect specimen of the Humble Bragger, the most insidious of parasites, with an ability to leave its victims with an acidic after-taste (despite the jalebi fest). Its Most-Hated title is closely contested by the Inverted Snob, harmless until you feel its sting.
“Really!” exhales Mr Q in the other corner of the room, where real estate is being imbibed in crystal glasses. “All these bumbling wannabes killing themselves to acquire the latest four bedroom duplex with Italian marble. Such ostentation! Laughable! I just need one room to sleep in, not four.”
The conversation screeches to a halt, and in the silence, someone who’s been yapping delightedly about his sea-facing apartment, lets out a sad little hiccup. Stay far from the Inverted Snob, for it can reduce to rubble any of your achievements.
Meanwhile, the Saint has infiltrated the kitchen. “Why is everyone so neg-a-tive?” Ms R hisses. “Finding fault with the government. So Neg-a-tive! Digging into the lives of celebrities. Neg-a-tive! Spending time on social media feeding fantasties of vanity. Neg-a-tive!” She slams her spoon thrice on the imported counter top. “Look for the light within, I say, look for the sunrise in the blackest night.” The hostess looks nervously for a crack on the imported countertop, hoping the 10-year warranty will still apply. The Saint sports wings of gossamer silk, and flies above the rest of what it has converted immediately by comparison, into a boorish population of selfish slobs.
The easiest to miss are the ubiquitous Back-Scratchers and Back-Biters, those lower species scuttling around untethered. “So very right, so brilliantly put,” Mr S nods at the incensed Ms R, blithely clueless about what she is incensed over, but she is, after all, the boss’ wife and one step closer to a raise. Mrs T agrees too, “Well spoken, Ms R!”, before turning to the lady next to her and whispering, “These holier-than-thou types. Can’t stand them!”
And what of that species which actually means what it says? Why, haven’t you looked under Endangered, teetering in fact, on Extinct?
Where Jane De Suza, the author of Happily Never After, talks about the week’s quirks, quacks and hacks.