Rich and Sweet

Scrolling through my feed, with only the occasional patter of semi-chipped nail-vanished nails on the smudged screen to distil the silence, I double-no triple tap on a new photo by melinabeauty: Miss Melina, with her frolicking curls kicking into the air against the Parisian backdrop of side streets and cobbles, effortlessly tossing- no, delicately placing a vintage Burberry scarf over her slender shoulders, smiling mid-girlish-giggle, into the camera, her eyes alight even behind mauve-tinted sunglasses. I pause. Where did she scout that scarf? The Burberry dynasty fell, with thread and dollars ablaze, over thirty years ago, its stock virtually unseen for decades. I wonder if she has advisors, designers, panderers who take their wallets like rifles into the handrail jungles, hunting for the rare pieces to pounce upon. I wonder if she pays them, or if they are rewarded by being number eighty-seven of one hundred and twenty one hashtags, because she loves us all. Miss Melina, with skin that is rumoured to be completely pore-free, and legs long enough to ride a penny-farthing comfortably. (Who said these bad boys have to stay in the 1880s? was ThriftStoreSteffi’s camera-aimed comment, as she slung her mini mini bag over the authentically-rusted handlebars, snapped by Hallå magazine, and it was instantly in anybody who is anybody’s feed.) She was probably one of those lucky ones who had their genes examined, studied to excavate the harsh pebbles in amongst the golden stars of a future icon. Not that they are actually allowed to intercept rogue splinters in DNA, but it cannot be a coincidence that those who have money seem to be smooth and knot-free. Look at her, Melina, Miss Melina, with her perfect photo-worthy life.

I come across ThriftStoreSteffi’s third picture atop her penny-farthing – ‘Bruce’, as if she did not even have to try to cultivate any more followers, she chose a delightfully tough yet comical and quirky name – to complete her perfect trios, all glazed with a deliciously hazy pink hue. jaz eats away at a ruby-round bonny-baby apple, while S T A R S T R U C K meditates in front of an image of a polar bear. I remember learning about those in school: huge, shabby-white bears, turned-in feet that could kill with one swipe, all reduced to ribcages and droopy, inky jowls. Even mum can barely remember them.

And then filling my screen was Isabel (now a copyrighted name, as of two years ago, when her brand took over America), with her signature over-saturated filter; perfect for covering any blemish – not that her beautiful skin even knew that ugly, forbidden word. She was lying damsel-like on a retro lime-green lilo, in a red swimsuit made entirely of strands held together at the side, to give a modest impression until one got within five meters, as the dutiful camera man clearly had. However, this particularly risqué wear wasn’t what drew my attention – nor her toned body or her wild, yet tangle-free, hair – but what she was floating upon: instead of the typical clear water, cleaned quarter-hourly from the smog that drifts through the air from every factory (no matter how ‘clean’ their labels proclaim), possibly exhibiting a sheer drop below, the water was white. I zoom in, pinching the screen further and further until the minuscule granules were broken up into their singular parts.

It was unmistakably sugar: a pool full of sweet, white sand. I scan the caption: just one dollar sign.

Waggling my fingers around in the air like I am conducting a crab-sized symphony, in confusion of what to make of it, I command my screen to refresh with more sharp aggression than I had intended. It was everywhere: a craze for sugar.

Girls with wire-infused pigtails threw sugar in the air like it was fake snow that was imported in at Christmas. Men, with strained plastic bags of sugar, pointed with gun-shaped fingers to their sweet bounty resting on one knee. With their supersonic cars and six figure wardrobes, pre-teens kissed coffee cups overflowing with sugar: ‘Money sure is sweet’.

After the 2037 sugar tax, and the 2039 amendment, and the 2041, 2042 and 2045 revisions too, sugar has been – until now, apparently – extinct, for us at least: it is a silent, secret knowledge that is whispered around the crowns and palaces, a tiny silver spoonful stirred into loose tea for those with gold in their back pocket. I do not even remember the texture of it, our taste buds coated now only with slimy sweeteners. After the first Sugar Tax, Gran always brought the conversation back to her high school history lessons, learning about the Tudors using sugar to brush their teeth to exhibit their wealth to the peasants below them. And here we are, first the penny-farthing, now sugar to show your societal status: surely this is regression?

Every other photo is contaminated with the white specks, piled higher and higher in ratio to money. I realise then that my tea, green and grassy, is still full beside me. Taking a gulp, without my eyes averting from the conveyer-belt of scrolling photos, I swill the liquid spiked with fake sweetness between my teeth. The Sugar Tax really did make the rich sweet.