Margot and the 4 Rosella Attack
The laughter had just begun to settle into a comfortable, giggling silence when Margot let out a long, dramatic sigh. She set the plastic muffin down on the marble coffee table with the reverence of a queen placing a crown on a velvet cushion.
“You know what else?” she said, her voice taking on that familiar tone of a woman who had seen things. Terrible things. “It’s not just the kitchen. It’s… everything. The universe has it out for me.”
Rihanna leaned back, crossing her legs. “This should be good.”
Margot took a deep breath, steadying herself. “Two weeks ago. I
was in my garden. My beautiful, peaceful, organic garden. I was pruning my roses. Lovely day. Birds singing. A gentle breeze. And then—” She paused for dramatic effect. “—I was attacked.”
Catherine Zeta-Jones tilted her head. “Attacked?”
“By four rosellas,” Margot said, her eyes narrowing at the memory. “Four different rosellas. Each one a different type.”
There was a beat of silence.
Catherine blinked. “I’m sorry, darling. There are different types of rosellas?”
[Menu]
“Yes,” Margot said, as if this were common knowledge. “Four types.”
Lady Gaga, who had been sipping her sparkling water with the intensity of someone solving a complex mathematical equation, set her glass down slowly. Her brow furrowed. She looked genuinely confused.
“You mean,” Gaga said, her voice filled with dawning realization, “some rosellas are communist?” https://sites.google.com/view/birds-of-australia/the-4-types-of-rosellas/eastern-rosellas
Margot stared at her.
Rihanna stared at her.
Catherine stared at her.
Gaga looked around the room, sensing she had perhaps missed a step. “What? They’re different types. Types of… political systems. Communist, capitalist, socialist, monarchist. That’s four types. It makes sense.”
https://sites.google.com/view/birds-of-australia/the-4-types-of-rosellas/the-crimson-rosella
“Gaga,” Margot said slowly, “rosellas are birds. Parrots. Australian parrots.”
Gaga’s face went through a remarkable journey in the span of three seconds. Confusion. Realization. Embarrassment. And then, unexpectedly, defiance.
“Well,” she said, lifting her chin, “how was I supposed to know that? You said ‘types.’ You didn’t say ‘species.’ You could have been talking about anything. Political affiliations. Personality types. Blood types. I was working with limited information.”
“Blood types?” Catherine repeated, incredulous. “You thought Margot was attacked by four birds with different blood types?”
“I was trying to keep an open mind!” Gaga protested.
Rihanna was already laughing, her head thrown back, her signature laugh filling the lounge. “Communist rosellas. I can’t. I literally cannot.”
Margot pressed on, determined to finish her story. “The first one was an Eastern Rosella. Bright red head, yellow and green body, white cheeks. Beautiful. Until it dive-bombed me. Went straight for my hair.”
“Maybe it wanted to nest,” Catherine offered.
“It wanted war,” Margot corrected. “Then, from the left, a Crimson Rosella. Deep red, blue cheeks. It swooped at my face. I ducked. Barely made it.”
“Perhaps you were near its nest,” Catherine tried again.
“I was near my own mailbox!” Margot exclaimed. “Then—and this is where it gets suspicious—a Western Rosella appeared. Yellow cheeks. Blue body. That one is only found in Western Australia, Catherine. What was it doing in my garden in Los Angeles?”
Catherine opened her mouth, then closed it. She had no answer.
“And finally,” Margot continued, her voice rising to a crescendo, “a Pale-headed Rosella. Pale yellow head, blue cheeks, white body. It just… sat on my fence. Watching. Waiting. As the other three coordinated their assault.”
“Coordinated?” Rihanna asked, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.
“They were taking turns!” Margot insisted. “It was organized! Strategic! That’s not normal bird behavior!”
Gaga, still recovering from her communist rosella mishap, raised a finger. “Wait. So if they were coordinated… and there were four of them… and they represented different regions of Australia…”
Margot groaned. “Gaga, please.”
“I’m just saying,” Gaga continued, undeterred, “it sounds like a summit. A rosella summit. They were probably discussing trade agreements and territorial disputes. You were just collateral damage.”
Catherine snorted. “A rosella summit. In Margot’s garden.”
“The Eastern Rosella was clearly the diplomat,” Gaga theorized, now fully committed to her interpretation. “The Crimson was the enforcer. The Western was the wildcard—”
“And the Pale-headed was the observer,” Rihanna finished, catching on. “The intelligence gatherer. I like it.”
Margot buried her face in her hands. “I have bruises. I have trauma. And you’re turning it into a political thriller.”
“To be fair,” Catherine said gently, “you did say they were different types. You practically invited the commentary.”
“I meant species!” Margot wailed. “I meant biological classifications! Not geopolitical ideologies!”
Gaga leaned forward, her expression suddenly serious. “But Margot. Think about it. If there were communist rosellas, what would they look like? Would they share their seeds equally? Would they have collective nests?”
“I hate you,” Margot said, but there was no heat in it. A smile was tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“The capitalist rosellas would hoard all the best twigs,” Rihanna added. “They’d have gated nests. Private feeders.”
“The monarchist rosellas would have a king bird,” Catherine joined in, clearly enjoying herself now. “A royal family. They’d look down on the other rosellas.”
Margot finally lifted her head, a reluctant laugh escaping her lips. “You’re all terrible. I was attacked by nature and you’re making jokes.”
Gaga reached over and squeezed her hand. “We’re not making jokes, darling. We’re processing your trauma through the lens of political satire. It’s a coping mechanism.”
“It’s ridiculous,” Margot said.
“So was the plastic muffin,” Rihanna pointed out. “And yet, here we are.”
Margot looked at the plastic muffin on the coffee table. Then at her three friends, each one barely holding it together. And despite everything—the cursed oven, the haggis soup, the coordinated rosella attack—she felt a warmth in her chest.
“Fine,” she said, throwing her hands up in surrender. “Fine. The rosellas were communists. The Eastern one had a manifesto. The Crimson one was the muscle. The Western one was the ideologue. And the Pale-headed one…”
“Was the spy,” Gaga finished triumphantly.
“Was the spy,” Margot agreed. “And I, Margot Robbie, was merely a pawn in their revolutionary agenda.”
Rihanna raised her glass. “To Margot. Victim of culinary chaos and avian insurrection.”
“Hear, hear,” Catherine and Gaga chorused.
Margot raised her water glass, clinking it against theirs. “And to friends who turn my suffering into comedy.”
“That’s what we’re here for,” Rihanna said, grinning. “Now, who wants to hear about the time I was chased by a pelican in Barbados?”
Three hands shot up immediately.
The afternoon stretched on, filled with stories and laughter, as the four women turned life’s absurdities into the best kind of therapy—shared, ridiculous, and utterly unforgettable.
queen of chaotic baking, Blake Lively was just a California girl born into a showbiz family 
Jennifer Hudson was just a church girl from Chicago who had the audacity to get eliminated from 
Grammy winner, 
was a tap-dancing Welsh prodigy from Swansea who got her start on stage in 
synthesizers, sequined costumes, and the magnificent custom perch where Geraldine the Crimson Rosella and Kevin the King-Parrot now reside. It is mid-afternoon, sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. Gaga is seated at her desk, wearing an oversized t-shirt featuring her own face, her hair in a messy bun, scrolling through emails. Geraldine is preening on her right shoulder. Kevin is dozing on her left. The peace is interrupted by the insistent chime of a Zoom call from an unknown number.
for a lemon drizzle cake she has no intention of actually making, when she freezes mid-step. Her cart squeaks to a halt. Her jaw drops. Her carefully composed expression crumbles into one of pure, unfiltered bewilderment.
Catherine: