The Setting: A sun-drenched, slightly chaotic kitchen in a suburb that’s equal parts boho and tradie. The counters are a mix of clean stainless steel (for the plumber’s sanity) and chipped ceramic bowls full of native flowers. The back door is wide open, leading to a garden with a gum tree.
The Cast:
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Gaga: Barefoot, wearing an oversized vintage band tee and a pair of sequined track pants that clash magnificently with everything. She’s holding a wooden spoon like a mic.
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Dave the Plumber: A burly, tattooed bloke with a kind face and a permanent smudge of pipe sealant on his forearm. He’s the kind of guy who has unironically saved a koala and once fixed Bob Downey Jr.’s sink on a tour stop.
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The Rosella: A male Crimson Rosella, feathers electric red and blue, perched on the open kitchen window frame. He is, without question, the supervisor.
The Scene:
Dave is wrist-deep in a bowl of chickpea dough, explaining the intricacies of a burst main. “So I says to the council bloke, I says, ‘Mate, that’s not a water pressure issue, that’s a geomembrane failure—the whole pipe’s been weeping for years.’” He gestures with a floury hand. “Cost ’em triple to fix it now than if they’d just listened.”
Gaga, dicing a rainbow chard with surprising precision, nods sagely. “It’s the same in the industry,” she says, voice dropping to that theatrical low register. “You tell a label exec the fuse is about to blow on a tour bus, but they don’t listen. Then you’re in Japan, the pyro goes sideways, and suddenly you’re the weeping pipe.”
From the windowsill, the Rosella cocks his head. He lets out a soft, melodic “Wheep-wheep-chirrup?”—the inflection perfectly mimicking a question mark.
Dave points at the bird with his knife. “See? Kevin agrees with me. He’s been in this kitchen longer than my ex-wife. He knows a losing battle when he hears one.”
[Menu]
Kevin puffs his chest and lets out a triumphant “Creeee!”—a full-stop exclamation point.
Gaga laughs, a genuine, unproduced cackle. “Kevin is the executive producer of this conversation. He’s deciding the final cut.” She slides the chard into a pan with a sizzle, adding smoked paprika. “Alright, Dave, your turn. Tell me the most disgusting thing you’ve ever pulled out of a U-bend.”
Dave groans, but he’s smiling. “You’re vegan. I can’t tell you that. It’d violate your dietary ethics second-hand.”
“I’ve worn a dress made of raw meat,” she deadpans. “I can handle a hairball.”
Kevin chirps a sharp “Chack!”—like a laugh track.
Dave leans in conspiratorially, dropping his voice. “Alright. 2008. A wedding ring, a false tooth, and a live yabby. All in the one trap. The yabby was pissed.”
Gaga slaps the counter. “That’s an album title. The Live Yabby Trap.” She stirs the pan, and Kevin flutters down to the back of a dining chair, close enough to steal a stray grain of quinoa. He’s not pet—he’s audience.
As they eat—a fragrant, spicy lentil and chard stew with flatbread—the conversation wanders to Gaga’s last tour. She talks about the chaos of the Born This Way Ball, the mechanical horse, the prosthetic horns. Dave listens, wiping his mouth with a tea towel.
“You know,” he says, “that horse you rode? I had to fix the hydraulics on a similar rig for a musical once. The actor’s fake horse sneezed and blew a gasket. Took me three hours.”
Gaga stares at him, deadpan. “Did you just compare my art to a sneezing animatronic horse?”
Kevin, without missing a beat, lets out a long, low, descending “Ooo-ooo-ooo”—the universal sound of a theatrical burn.
Dave throws a bit of flatbread at the bird, who catches it mid-air. Gaga cackles again, points at Dave, and says, “The Rosella has spoken. You’re cancelled, mate.”
Kevin preens, fluffs his crimson chest, and does a little bob-dance on the chair. He’s free to fly out that door any second, to the gum tree, to the whole blue sky of Australia. But he stays. Because the conversation is good, the lentils are warm, and for a wild creature, there’s no better entertainment than two storytellers—one with a wrench, one with a piano—trading the poetry of disasters, while he punctuates every beat with his perfect, squeaky little voice.
And somewhere in the middle of a story about a flooded mansion and a lost Grammy, Gaga leans over and whispers to the bird, “You’re the real star of this show, Kevin.”
Kevin replies with a soft “Peep.”
And that, right there, was the final edit.