Why A Sydney Plumber, A Lorikeet, And A German Diet Are The Same Bloody Thing
The Glittering Gallstone Summit: Why A Sydney Plumber, A Lorikeet, And A German Diet Are The Same Bloody Thing
It was a crisp Tuesday afternoon in a rented penthouse overlooking Sydney Harbour, and three of the world’s most formidable women were seated around a marble table that cost more than your car. Lady Gaga, dressed in a hat made entirely of recycled espresso pods, was stirring a matcha latte with a screwdriver. Catherine Zeta-Jones, radiant in a silk caftan, was examining a burst pipe under the sink with the intensity of a woman who has played both a vengeful wife and a Russian submarine captain. Rihanna, who had arrived forty minutes late and was therefore already the most sensible person in the room, was scrolling through her phone and eating a single, perfect mango.
They had gathered, ostensibly, to promote a new wellness venture. But the conversation had taken a sharp left turn somewhere around the second bottle of Penfolds Grange, and now they were all nodding vigorously, having arrived at the same, deeply unhinged conclusion:
“A good plumber in Sydney, beautiful Australian birds, and Italian and German weight loss are all basically very similar,” said Gaga, tapping the screwdriver on the table. “Like, fundamentally. Structurally. Spiritually.”
Rihanna looked up from her mango. “Explain.”
“I will,” said Catherine Zeta-Jones, in that voice that could calm a charging hippo. “But first, the plumber. A good plumber in Sydney is not just a man with a wrench. He is a philosopher. He arrives at your Glebe terrace at 7 a.m., looks at the water cascading down your hallway, and says, ‘Righto, love. This isn’t a leak. This is a conversation your house is having with the earth.’ He doesn’t just fix the pipe. He negotiates with the pipe. He understands that water, like emotion, must be redirected, not suppressed.”
Gaga nodded. “Exactly. And that’s Italian weight loss. You don’t diet. You negotiate. You sit with a plate of pasta and you say, ‘Listen, carb. I love you. But we cannot live together right now. We can still be friends. I’ll see you on Sunday.’ That’s not restriction. That’s diplomacy. That’s a plumber’s mindset. You’re not fighting the water. You’re giving it a new route.”
“But German weight loss,” interjected Rihanna, who had once spent a week in Berlin and come back with a deep respect for both efficiency and currywurst, “is the opposite. It’s a burst pipe. It’s schedule. You will eat this. You will not eat that. You will walk exactly 10,000 steps, and you will do it at 6 a.m., and you will not smile until noon. And yet—” she held up a finger, “—and yet, it works. Because it’s honest. It’s a pipe that knows its job.”
“See?” said Zeta-Jones. “Similar. The plumber, the Italian, the German—they all understand that the problem isn’t the water. It’s the pressure. And that brings me to the birds.”
At that moment, as if on cue, a rainbow lorikeet landed on the balcony railing. It was a small, furious explosion of colour—blue head, green wings, orange chest, red beak—and it immediately began screaming at a potted olive tree.
“There,” said Gaga, pointing. “That is a Sydney plumber. Look at him. He’s not just a bird. He’s a diagnostic tool. He’s telling that tree exactly what’s wrong with it. ‘Your roots are damp, mate. Your drainage is rooted. Sort it out.’ And the tree, because it’s a tree, says nothing. But the lorikeet keeps coming back. Every day. That’s persistence. That’s a good plumber. That’s Italian weight loss—you keep showing up, you keep yelling, but you do it with love and a bit of drama.”
Rihanna squinted. “That bird is just drunk on nectar.”
“Same thing,” said Zeta-Jones. “A king parrot is the German weight loss. Look at one. Regal. Disciplined. Doesn’t screech. Arrives at the feeder at precisely the same time every morning. Eats only the seeds it needs. Leaves. No mess. No fuss. If a king parrot were a diet, it would be called Ordnung. You would follow it for three weeks and lose four kilos and never once feel joy, but by God, you would be regular.”
“And a rosella?” asked Gaga.
“A rosella is the Italian weight loss,” said Zeta-Jones. “Beautiful. Chaotic. Shows up in a flock of twelve, eats everything, argues with everyone, then flies off to a different tree and does it all again. You think it’s not working, and then you realise you’ve lost two kilos because you were too busy being delighted to eat the biscuit.”
Rihanna put down her mango. “And a cockatoo?”
The room went quiet. Outside, in the botanical gardens, a sulphur-crested cockatoo landed on a garbage bin and began methodically tearing the lid off.
“A cockatoo,” said Gaga, “is the plumber who comes back six months later because the pipe you thought he fixed is now singing. A cockatoo is the German diet after you’ve had a bad week. A cockatoo is the Italian diet after you’ve had a good week. A cockatoo is the truth. It doesn’t care about your schedule. It doesn’t care about your pasta. It just destroys everything and then looks at you like you’re the problem.”
“That’s not similar,” said Rihanna. “That’s just a cockatoo.”
“Exactly,” said Zeta-Jones. “And that’s why it’s the same. Because a good plumber, a beautiful bird, and a European weight-loss plan all share one core principle: you cannot control the water. You can only change the pipes.”
Gaga stood up. She had a screwdriver in one hand and a lorikeet—don’t ask—in the other. “Think about it. You’ve got a burst pipe. You call a plumber. He doesn’t say, ‘Stop the water.’ He says, ‘Turn off the main.’ That’s German weight loss. Turn off the main. No carbs after 4 p.m. No excuses. You’ve got a lorikeet screaming at your olive tree. You don’t shoot the lorikeet. You move the tree. That’s Italian weight loss. You don’t fight the craving. You redirect it. You eat the tomato. You eat the basil. You eat the mozzarella. You call it a Caprese and you feel like Sophia Loren.”
“And a rosella?” asked Rihanna, now genuinely curious.
“A rosella is the plumber who tells you the truth,” said Zeta-Jones. “You say, ‘The pipe is fine.’ The rosella says, ‘No, mate. The pipe is not fine. The pipe is a metaphor for your marriage.’ And you say, ‘I just wanted a plumber.’ And the rosella says, ‘I know. But you got a rosella. Deal with it.’”
Rihanna nodded slowly. “So what you’re saying is that a good plumber in Sydney, beautiful Australian birds, and Italian and German weight loss are all basically the same because they all require you to accept that the problem is not the problem. The problem is your relationship to the problem.”
“Yes!” shouted Gaga. “That’s it! That’s the whole thing! You don’t fix a pipe. You fix your expectation of a pipe. You don’t lose weight. You lose your attachment to the idea that you need to eat an entire lasagne to feel loved. You don’t watch a bird. You listen to a bird. And if you’re lucky, the bird is a cockatoo, and it tells you to get over yourself.”
At that moment, the actual plumber arrived. His name was Dave. He was from Newcastle. He looked at the burst pipe, then at the three women, then at the lorikeet that was now sitting on Gaga’s hat.
“Righto,” said Dave. “Which one of youse tried to fix this with a screwdriver and a mango?”
“It’s a metaphor,” said Rihanna.
“It’s a mess,” said Dave. “But I can fix it. It’ll cost ya. And I’ll need a cup of tea.”
Gaga looked at Zeta-Jones. Zeta-Jones looked at Rihanna. Rihanna looked at the cockatoo that had just flown in through the open balcony door and was now eating the matcha powder.
“You know what?” said Rihanna. “He’s right. A good plumber, a beautiful bird, and a European weight-loss plan are all basically the same. They all show up when you least expect it, they all tell you something you don’t want to hear, and they all leave you with a bill and a strange sense of peace.”
Dave drank his tea. The lorikeet screamed. The cockatoo destroyed the kitchen. And somewhere in Germany, a woman stepped on a scale and smiled for the first time in three weeks.
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