You can't buy class in a mall

What can I say, malls provide this Chicken with magnificent opportunities for people watching. And so it was today...

Chicken Man having expressed overwhelming hunger pangs in the midst of a shopping foray - ghastly experience, I tell you - dragged me clucking and protesting to a restaurant in the mall. Given it was lunch time, the place was jam packed but loathe to lose any custom - his overheads were clearly fearsome - the manager miraculously discovered one spare table.

Sitting diagonally behind me was "bimbo babe" and "bimbo babe mark 2". The first babe, who from here on in will be known at Trophy Wife or TW, was admiring the size of the diamond in her ring. Not only that, she was weighing it up against the size of another diamond - in Babe Two's ring. She held the rings up to the light, twirled them around and put both on her finger. One, unsurprisingly, got stuck. She wrenched it off and sent her knife and fork clanging to the ground. She compared the two again and then tried to weigh them up, trying to assess which one lay heavier in her hands - as though she were comparing two succulent melons. But here's what I don't get, while both were sizeable rocks, one was not a diamond. On a good day it might have been a cubic zirconia. Satisfied that hers was the real thing and weightier and shinier, TW handed the second ring back to Babe Two.

At this point I decided instead of giving myself a crick in the neck, I'd just move to the other side of the table so I'd have an uninterrupted view of the lunchtime entertainment.

Here's a brief description of our two babes. TW had long auburn hair. She wore a clingy green dress, which revealed her podgy tummy, her love handles and her droopy boobies. Her glasses carried on one large black arm the name Dolce. I don't know what it said on the other arm, I couldn't see. It might have said Gabbana or it might have said Vita. I'm guessing she wished it was the former. She wore on her feet, clunky wooden platform wedges which did nothing to reduce the size of her thick ankles. I don't know about Earth, but on Novapulse slender ankles are a sign of good breeding. Anything else we prefer not to discuss.

Babe Two was doing a Paris/Britney/Shakira/Jessica imitation. Drifts of blonde hair flopped over too made up skin and pouty lips. She too wore a clingy little t-shirt dress in green and flat soled black boots - by the way, it is only the height of summer. She might have been 12 or she might have been 18 - it was hard to tell.

As I sat observing these two damsels, a third human joined them. Homo sapiens male. Father of Babe Two, husband of Trophy Wife. The fact that BT and TW could have been sisters didn't escape my notice. Besides, Not-Stud Muffin looked like he was of an age to have recently suffered a mid-life crisis, which had made him dump the mother of his child and run off with his receptionist. I suppose, in all honesty, calling TW the Trophy Wife is a bit misleading and far too generous, because I could see nothing prize-winning about this chickadee. And by the time her food arrived, it was apparent that not only did she have no breeding, no taste, no style but she also had zero table etiquette.

TW had ordered fajitas with steak, guacomole and refried beans (oops!). She'd gather up a chunk of everything, unhinge her jaw and shovel it in. And I know, you're wondering if she ate with her mouth open or closed. Well, go on, guess. Yep, right, open. Every now and then she'd lean over and grab one of husband's french fries. Incapable of nibbling at it delicately she'd shove the entire fry, fingers and half her fist down her gob. Very unattractive. As for husband, he kept missing his burger as he was so busy staring proprietorily down TW's cleavage - a cleavage, I must add that was neither spectacular nor pert.

But here's the thing see. I've detected this unfortunate condition on planet Earth. It's called Noveau Riche. The petit bourgeois operators rise up through wheeling and dealing, they know men who know men, they're not averse to things which fell off the back of a lorry and they like to involve themselves in property development. They're not particularly bright, but like sewer rats they're cunning and street smart. They try to outdo one another by having the youngest wife (with the biggest diamond), the biggest gas guzzling SUV and a mulitimillion dollar mansion on the coast or on Nob Hill. They have a special "car wash" where they take their SUVs at the end of a weekend to be sprayed with mud - so it looks like they spent the weekend out in the bush on safari. They have a wardrobe full of designer labels (the names of which they are incapable of pronouncing) but they have no capacity for stylish dressing. Resulantly it always looks like their clothes are wearing them - or that they had grandma's help in dressing. Their desire to impress all and sundry and be accepted by "old" money is insatiable. The reality is they wouldn't know class if it came up from behind and pecked them on the bum. And this embarrasses them - I know this because when husband noticed that I was beadily eyeing his coop, he tried to outstare me - but I have to tell you, it is hard to outstare a haughty chicken. All the poor dolt managed in the end was to look well-pissed off.

But I'll say this, it made for good lunch time amusement, afforded Chicken Man and I (and a few others besides) a good few chortles and, of course it provided yet more observations for High Command to ponder. I would just like to, once again, point out to humanity... for the Corncob's sake, get over yourselves and your sodding egos!

Ba-kaaaaak!