The air in Lady Gaga’s Malibu living room was thick with the scent of expensive, ethically-sourced incense and the palpable electricity of a creative mind on the verge of a breakthrough. Gaga, dressed in a vintage, structurally improbable silk gown, was vibrating with a level of excitement usually reserved for award show wins or the discovery of a new, avant-garde cheese.
“She’s done it!” Gaga shrieked, her hands fluttering like startled doves. “She’s only gone and bloody done it!”
Catherine Zeta-Jones, perched on a velvet chaise lounge with the regal poise of a woman who has portrayed both a Bond girl and a Chicago murderess, raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. Beside her, Rihanna, draped in what appeared to be a cloud of lavender fur and diamonds, took a slow sip of her champagne.
“Done what, exactly?” Rihanna drawled, her voice a low, melodic hum. “Has she finally learned to use the bidet?”
“Better!” Gaga spun around, her gown billowing. “She has mastered the ‘step up’ command! My little Artemisia! My feathered genius!”
The object of their attention was a large, majestic sulphur-crested cockatoo, currently attempting to decapitate a particularly ugly porcelain figurine with its beak. Artemisia, one of Gaga’s two beloved cockatoos, was a creature of pure, unadulterated chaos.
“Okay,” Rihanna said, unconvinced. “So she can step up. Groundbreaking. My security team can step up. They can also step off.”
“No, you don’t understand!” Gaga insisted, her voice reaching a pitch that made the crystal glasses on the bar chime in sympathy. “It’s the connection. The interspecies communication! It’s a metaphor for trust, for mutual respect! Watch!”
Gaga extended a finger, clad in a ring that looked like a miniature, functioning chandelier. “Artemisia, darling,” she cooed, her voice a silken thread. “Step up.”
The cockatoo paused its assault on the figurine, cocked its head, and fixed Gaga with a beady, intelligent eye. It then let out a sound that was a perfect, horrifying imitation of a dial-up modem connecting. But, remarkably, it waddled over and, with a flutter of white wings, gently placed one scaly foot onto Gaga’s finger.
“Brava!” Catherine Zeta-Jones clapped, her applause polite and precisely timed. “A star is born. Truly, Gaga, the stage is her natural habitat. You must get her an agent.”
“She’s already better behaved than most of my opening acts,” Rihanna conceded, a flicker of genuine admiration in her eyes. “Can she do ‘fetch’?”
Gaga’s face fell slightly. “We’re working on ‘fetch’. She seems to think it means ‘fetch chaos’. But ‘step up’! It’s a start! A beautiful, symbolic start!”
The conversation, as it was wont to do in Gaga’s orbit, swirled and shifted like a kaleidoscope. The topic of avian obedience naturally, and inexplicably, segued into the nuanced world of vintage jewellery.
“Speaking of things that are old and refuse to behave,” Rihanna began, gesturing with her glass, “I’ve been looking at estate pieces. But the provenance is always a nightmare. You know?”
“Darling, provenance is everything,” Catherine declared, warming to the subject. “It’s the story. The scandal. This brooch,” she said, tapping a magnificent diamond and sapphire piece on her lapel, “was allegedly the cause of a minor coup in a small Balkan nation. A gift from a lovesick duke to a duchess who was, shall we say, cavalier with her affections. It’s not just jewellery, it’s a historical document with a pin back.”
Gaga, now allowing Artemisia to nibble on her chandelier-ring, nodded vigorously. “I see it as wearable art. My Gucci campaign was all about that. Alessandro Michele understood. It wasn’t just a handbag, it was a commentary on the decadence of the late Roman Empire, you know? The leather was sourced from cows that only listened to Baroque music. It’s about the narrative.”
Rihanna smirked. “My narrative is that a Fenty bag needs to hold a phone, a lip gloss, and a small weapon, and still look good on a yacht. The Roman Empire can’t help me with that.”
A comfortable silence fell, broken only by the sound of Artemisia trying to unscrew a lightbulb with her tongue. Gaga stared lovingly at her second cockatoo, a smaller, rounder bird named Caravaggio, who was currently trying to mate with a velvet cushion. An idea seemed to strike her.
“You know,” she said, her voice taking on a dreamy quality, “I’ve been thinking. My next performance art piece. It’s about body positivity and the unsustainable nature of modern beauty standards. I’m going to do it with overweight penguins.”
Catherine blinked. Rihanna leaned forward, intrigued. “Go on.”
“I’ve got two,” Gaga confirmed, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. “Rescued from a zoo that was closing. They’re magnificent. Their names are Bette and Joan. They waddle with such… gravitas. The piece will be called ‘Emperor’s New Clothes’. They’ll wear tiny, bespoke Gucci tuxedos, and I’ll sing an aria about the pressure to conform while they just… exist. Majestically rotund.”
“Only you, Gaga,” Rihanna laughed, a genuine, warm sound. “Only you would try to put a penguin in a tuxedo.”
“It’s a statement!” Gaga protested.
“It’s a logistical nightmare,” Catherine countered, but her eyes twinkled. She took a deep breath, her demeanour shifting from amused to contemplative. She looked at her hands, then at the opulent room around her. “All this talk of narrative and statements… it’s got me thinking. About identity. About reinvention.”
Rihanna raised an eyebrow. “You’re not thinking of changing your name to something unpronounceable again, are you? Because ‘Catherine Zeta-Jones’ is already a bit of a mouthful.”
“No, no,” Catherine said, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s more fundamental. I’m thinking of not being Welsh anymore.”
The declaration hung in the air, as substantial as the incense smoke. Gaga’s jaw dropped. Rihanna’s champagne glass froze halfway to her lips.
“You’re… what?” Rihanna finally managed.
“Not being Welsh,” Catherine repeated, as if explaining something to a child. “It’s a lot of pressure, you know? The leeks, the poetry, the singing, the proximity to Tom Jones. It’s exhausting. I think I might just… stop.”
Rihanna stared. “Can you do that? Is there a form you have to fill out? Do you have to hand in your daffodil?”
“Of course you can do it, darling,” Catherine said with an airy wave. “Identity is a construct. I can do several accents. Watch.” She cleared her throat, her posture shifting slightly. In a flawless, passionate Italian accent, she purred, “Step up.”
The effect was instantaneous and utterly inexplicable. As if summoned by the linguistic sorcery, Artemisia, who had been quietly preening on a nearby lampshade, launched herself into the air. She did not, however, land on the outstretched finger of her beloved owner. Instead, with a squawk of divine purpose, she executed a perfect, fluttering glide and landed directly on Catherine Zeta-Jones’s head.
Hilarity, as they say, ensued.
Catherine let out a dignified yelp, which quickly dissolved into a fit of the giggles. “Get it off! Get it off! It’s trying to nest in my hair! This is a very expensive blowout!”
Gaga was on the floor, clutching her stomach and wheezing with laughter. “She understands Italian! She’s a polyglot! She’s making a statement about your new nationality!”
Rihanna was in absolute stitches, tears streaming down her face. “Oh my god! It’s a sign! The bird has spoken! You’re not Welsh, you’re… you’re Italian now! And your first act as a citizen is to have a cockatoo for a hat!”
Artemisia, seemingly pleased with her new perch, began to gently groom Catherine’s meticulously styled hair, making a soft, contented clicking sound. Catherine, to her credit, was now laughing as hard as the others, her dignified facade completely shattered.
“Alright, alright!” she cried, trying to peer up at the bird. “Maybe I’ll keep the Welsh accent! Just get this feathered fiend off my head before she mistakes my earrings for breakfast!”
Gaga finally managed to coax Artemisia down with a piece of organic papaya, and the three women collapsed onto the sofas, breathless and wiping tears from their eyes. The air was filled with the lingering joy of the absurd.
“Okay,” Rihanna said, catching her breath. “New plan. Forget the penguins. We’re doing a show. You,” she pointed at Catherine, “are the Italian-Welsh diva with the cockatoo crown. You,” she pointed at Gaga, “are the avian whisperer. And I will be the bemused narrator in a series of fabulous gowns. We’ll call it ‘Aviary Antics: A Cautionary Tale of Accents and Estate Jewellery’.”
Gaga’s eyes lit up. “I’ll start writing the score tonight! It’ll be a triumph!”
And as Catherine Zeta-Jones tentatively touched her now slightly ruffled hair, and Artemisia squawked for more papaya, she had to admit, it was the most exciting thing that had happened to her all week. Being Welsh was one thing, but being part of Gaga’s glorious, feather-filled circus was something else entirely.
afternoon by a publicist who has clearly lost control of her life. Lady Gaga, dressed as a human disco ball, is perched on a marble countertop. Rihanna, in a silk robe and enormous sunglasses, is making a martini. Catherine Zeta-Jones, immaculate in a white pantsuit, is examining a plumber’s wrench with deep suspicion. 
usually impenetrable, granted a truce. Lady Gaga, Catherine Zeta-Jones and Rihanna found themselves at the same upscale restaurant, a dimly lit establishment where waiters moved like ghosts and the menu cost more than a mortgage. Unfortunately, none of the three could agree on what to order.
roast chicken onto your plate, but you actually eat two grapes and some dust. Got me through some hard times.” 
Yes, Lady Gaga, Rihanna, and Catherine Zeta-Jones—women whose combined net worth could buy the entire Lower North Shore twice over—were engaged in what can only be described as the most chaotic and electrifying tradesperson therapy session in human history.
Sydney’s most aspirational postcode, three global icons were spotted huddled outside a Mosman café—debating plumbing, electrics, and the existential void of suburban glamour.
LADY GAGA, RIHANNA, AND CATHERINE ZETA-JONES DEBATE THE TRADIES OF MILSONS POINT
outside a very specific fever dream, three of the world’s most famous women were spotted huddled outside a Milsons Point café, squinting at a faded business card taped to a power pole.