I arrived in Johannesburg in a daze. After a 20-hour long flight from Sydney, I managed to (a) not find my airport pickup, and (b) leave my new camera on a seat at the airport after the excitement of finally finding my airport pickup took hold of me.

"Willy! I left my camera inside the airport!!" I said to Willy, the driver, as we left the terminal building and walked towards the car. He was a small skinny man, and the few teeth he had were as black as his skin.

"You have all bags here," he tried to convince me, obviously not pleased with the fact that I was going to take up more of this time.

"NO! Camera. Bag. Inside. Airport!"

I sprinted back toward the airport again. I sprinted like I never sprinted before. I secretly thought to myself, my legs must look really long right now because I was moving so fast. When I got inside, the airport security guys had just taken my new camera in its new camera bag from where I had left it. I flagged them down and screamed that it was mine. A crowd gathered to watch the commotion.

"Check if everything is in there!" A rugby-sized white man told me.

"Make sure you check!" His wife reaffirmed.

"把包检查一下！不能相信这些黑人警察!" [Check the bag! You can't trust these black cops!]

Out of nowhere came this voice in Chinese. In my daze, I thought my always sensible dad had appeared in an apparition. The voice introduced himself as Frank Cheng, a fifty-something Chinese-South-African who lived in Johannesburg and a prominent member of the local Chinese community. Here we go, I thought to myself, another one of my people fitting the stereotype of feeling superior to anyone darker than them. Little did I realise then that in South Africa, this wasn't a stereotype afflicting just my people. To say that "race" is an interesting issue in South Africa is an understatement. It is a topic that pretends to be above itself and moved on from the Apartheid era but yet still permeates everyday life.

Back to the situation at hand. I was surrounded by black cops who wanted to take a statement from me, white South Africans who yelled for me to check my bag, and a Chinese-South-African who was by then asking where in China my family hailed from. I did my part for international race relations by thanking the black cops for finding my camera bag with everything still inside it, appeased the white South Africans by going through every pocket of the bag, and went through most of the family history with Frank Cheng. It was a happy moment. People of all colours were pleased that this socially-conscious young woman got her camera back, ready for all the happy snapping in Africa. Except for Willy-Few-Teeth, who was impatiently tapping his watch at me.

Text to parents: "Arrived safe. No dramas at all."

It was a cold stormy night. Almost Dickensian; poor working lass of almost-twenty-eight, toiled away late into the night alone in a fluorescent office on the 20th floor of the Rather-Large-Bank.

"I need to get the fuck out of here," I said to myself. It is completely sane to talk to oneself when no one is around.

"I need to have something to look forward to, " I elaborated.

"What did you want to do when you were a little girl?" I asked myself.

"Be a train conductor," myself said to I.

"What else?" I asked again, slightly disappointed at my first response.

"Go to Africa. That's it! I will go to AFRICA!!" And suddenly all was clear. I can shove the spreadsheet I was working on up someone else's arse (I mean, share drive) for a month and escape to the jungles.

Saturday night. Scene: shite cocktails at the local RSL that has recently decided to vamp it up to entice the young crowd. Cast: four ladies who survived high school together.

Ms. Brains: Smart, articulate, and the first one of us to get married. Other memorable traits include the infamous incident on the first day of high school when she stood up in front of the whole maths class to tell the rest of us buffoons to shut up and "show some respect".

Ms. Simpatico: Lovely, quiet, and rational. She is the best of us - the first person I think of when I feel a rage attack to calm me down.

Ms. Boobs: Hot, cleavage, and it wasn't a surprise when she became the first one of us to get a boyfriend.

And me.

There was always this quiet rivalry between Ms. Boobs and I, as was usually the case between girls who were best friends. The only thing was, she always seemed to beat me in the things that mattered - boys, boys and boys. And it irked me.

The first boy I ever liked, for example. Ms. Brains cornered him in Grade 8 one day.

"You know, Polly likes you, " she said with the subtlety that could only be found in an eighth grader.

"Yeh. But I like Ms. Boobs."

Friggin moron. Although some satisfaction came in Grade 11 when the friggin moron asked me to be his girlfriend. Pretend girlfriend, so that he could throw off the scent on this girl who was stalking him. High school was tough.

So. Saturday night. Ten years later. Cheap cocktails. Four young ladies who survived high school together.

"How's the new guy?" I asked Ms. Boobs.

"I don't know. I think we're not going to last. I plan on breaking it off next week," Ms. Boobs replied. I shook my head; it was like back in high school again, I thought. Ms. Boobs - too many boys chasing after her, and her not realising how good she has with her ridiculously small and unfair waist to boobs ratio.

"So what happened with the old one?" Ms. Brains asked.

"It just didn't work. He wouldn't touch me."

"What? You were doing it right?" I was amazed.

"I could lie there naked next to him and he wouldn't touch me," said Ms. Boobs.

"What?" We exclaimed in disbelief. I mean, she has a ridiculously small and unfair waist to boobs ratio.

"Yeah. He was great at everything. But in the four years we went out, I can count the number of times we did it and the number of times he stuck his tongue down my throat." Ms Boobs recalled, "Ten and ten."

"Are you serious?" we asked.

"Yeah." Ms. Boobs confirmed.

"Oh. That's just fucked. If I was that motherfucker, I'd totally tap that. I mean, you. Like, more than ten times in fucking four years. Bang!" I said, under the influence of alcohol and total disbelief at any hot blooded male's inability to tap that.

I also spent a whole day earlier fueled up on two whole seasons of "Entourage". I thought I was Ari Gold and maybe I could talk sense into the situation if this frigid boy of Ms. Boob's was in front of me.

When I got home tonight, with some quiet satisfaction, I realised that it isn't all about the waist to boob ratio. And I couldn't wait to tell the Boy about how good we have it, despite the tyranny of distance.

Not that it is something to be smug about.

FLB, the rotten egg smell that we just can't get rid of in my otherwise semi-harmonious team, has been with us for close to a year now. She is the bane of everyone's existence; the itch that we want to scratch till it bleeds, the psycho dog that we want to put down, the cancerous tumour on which we want to double the dosage of chemo...

I can keep the metaphor going all day. She is a bitch. A very lazy one. Hence the acronym she is now known as amongst the team. No prizes for guessing what the F stands for. Lets just say that the F helps with the venting of anger.

Her understanding of the word "assistant" in "personal assistant" is very limited. Not a day goes by without our requests being bounced back from her with a terse "can you sort this out for yourselves." We forward those emails around the team; we lament and console each other over our shared misfortune of having to work with her.

Very Tall New Guy: "I got locked out in the fire escape last night. She somehow got rid of the after hours access on my security pass. Instead of putting it back on today, she emailed me the security operations number and walked out of the door to go shopping."

Chubby Pom [screams over email]: "Fire escape? At least you managed to get out. I'm stuck 800km away because she fucked up my flight."

Very Tall New Guy [not ready to be outdone]: "No wait. I think I can top that. I just got 1000 business cards printed. Very nice of her to get that done. Very useful. If only she had put the address on.

As she annoys us all day with her lack of "assistance" as part of her role as a "personal assistant", sometimes, I like to hit the ball back into her court.

For example, right after Chinese New Year.

Me: "How was your Chinese New Year?"
FLB [rather chirpily for an FLB]: "Yeah, it was fantastic! I got a few of red packets."
Me: "You? Red packets? Aren't you a bit old at 37??!"
FLB [with less enthusiasm]: "Well, yes, maybe..."
Me: "I guess there's ALWAYS an upside to still being a spinster eh?"

Me 1 - FLB 0.

"So Polly, when is it your turn?" the Delightful Young Man asked while we were out at dinner. He had just flown into Melbourne for work and we caught up on the woes gone by in the past year.

Which, namely, for me was my disastrous debut as a bridesmaid in April. My friendship with Bridezilla still hangs by a thread.

"I think after that episode, I am off weddings in general." I said bluntly.

"How long has it been now? Two years? Surely you think about it?" DYM fired off a series of questions, "Even daydream about a diamond here and there?"

"Yes, but only in terms of how much I can haggle with that Israeli jeweller on Swanston Street. " I said, referring to the jeweller who Miss Unsubtle had gotten her bling from. This guy can get you any cut of diamond you want, at any size. Sometimes, he even flies to Antwerp himself to pick it up. Visiting him is like a scene out of a Guy Ritchie film.

"See. You do think about it."

"But not in some pink vomit way," I hastily defended myself.

We ate our entrees in silence as I thought about "it" a bit more.

"You know what I do think about a lot?" I started to confess. "The music. Bridezilla paid something like five grand for the three piece jazz band at her wedding. I could save that and do it myself!"

"What? You're going to sing at your own wedding?"

"No. Don't be stupid. That would leave no time to drink," I scoffed and started again at the subject I had been thinking a lot about. "I know music. And I know good music. And what's more, le Garçon knows even more than me about music. I will have the best music at my wedding. It won't cost me anything because it's all in my CD collection and iTunes. It'll be Polly's wedding collection full of the most romantic yet not so cheesy tunes. It'll be the best mixed tape ever! My definitive version of the best mix tape!"

"So it will be like being trapped in car with you and being made to listen to all your CDs during a very long road trip," DYM wasn't convinced.

"No! Not all CDs! Just a mix tape! And what better time to show case it than at my wedding because people will be made to listen to it! We'll start off with Al Green's 'Let's Stay Together' and then throw in a bit of Ella, Billie and Frank - the originals - none of this Michael Bublé bullshit. A bit of Rufus and Queen for laughs. You know, songs that ticks in peoples' head with 'wow, that really captures the two of them.' Oh and there's this one I heard recently..."

Like a mix tape, I think DYM stopped listening by track four. But come my wedding, he'll oblige.

Miss Unsubtle quit with five weeks to go. A drawn out process following over a year of "It's my wedding! It's my life!"

I remain. Reluctantly.

December 2006. "I'm engaged! Look at the ring! Groom-to-be-of-Bridezilla got it from Charles Rose! Will you be my bridesmaid? My chief bridesmaid?" Screams and hugs followed.

February 2007. At a bridal expo, "This is my chief bridesmaid, Polly."

May 2007. Through tears in a busy cafe, "I'm trying to make everyone happy! I'm trying to please everyone! It's going to be a pink dress!"

July 2007. "Oh Polly! Thank you for finding my wedding dress with me!"

August 2007. "I don't care about the starving kids in Africa! The photographer is $6000 and he's GOOD!"

December 2007. To Miss Unsubtle, "Sometimes, I think Polly only wanted to be my bridesmaid because she's in competition with Tuck Shop Lady Arms (TSLA)."

January 2008. "If I was the bridesmaid, I would have all weekends in the two months leading up to the wedding free for the bride. Polly should have told me that she has a wedding to attend on the day I want to have my Hens."

February 2008. "Miss Unsubtle, I am not unreasonable, I am selfless. It's not like I have been a bridezilla. Just get along with my lovely friend who called you and Polly manipulative. It's my wedding. Just be happy for me. It should be about me."

February 2008. "I can't believe Miss Unsubtle just quit."

February 2008. "I never wanted Polly to be my chief bridesmaid. If I had a choice, it would have been Arse Crawler."

February 2008. "Polly, TSLA is going to be Miss Unsubtle's replacement. I always wanted her to be the bridesmaid but you were uncomfortable about it because she used to go out with The Boy. I'm just selfless like that."

March 2008. "Polly, I've paired Arse Crawler with the Best Man because she is the only one who is married. All my bridesmaids are the same to me. There's no chief bridesmaid. What? Oh that ceremony program just says Arse Crawler is the Matron of Honour, but all my bridesmaids are the same to me."

A rather good summary of events. So come Sunday next week, as the Wedding March plays and TSLA waddles down the aisle...

The Boy thinks to himself, "I tapped that."

And as I gracefully glide toward the alter...

The Boy thinks smugly to himself, "I'm tapping that."

It is like rain on your wedding day. A black fly in your chardonnay.

"So what are you?"

I have always envied those who can answer this in a long-winded way to include every continent on earth and throw in various mix of spices in quarters or eighths, or even sixteenths. My friend, Ms Pants Advocate, can list over half of the UN Security Council in her blood stream.

Being just full-blooded anything seems so...dull.

On a recent trip to China with my parents, a revelation came one night out at dinner in Chengdu.

"Dad! Let's do the family tree when we get home!" I excitedly said. Earlier, we had visited an elderly relative who revealed all the glory of the old family. Oxford scholars, renowned surgeons and crazed artists abound in the thick volume of my paternal grandmother's family tree.

"Pfft!" My fat cousin scoffed at the idea.

"We're not doing YOUR family tree. We're doing OURS!" I scoffed back. He's on my mother's side of the family and thus we don't share the same surname.

"Sometimes, you find things things you don't want to know, " he retorted quietly.

Given my limited mastery of the Chinese language, all I could come up with was very loudly, "I DON'T CARE!" and a pout.

My outburst was met by silence around the dinner table. Momma and Pappa looked embarrassed. We don't know what drugs she's been taking while on her own in Melbourne, we might need to have a quiet chat with her later, the look on their faces revealed.

And then the silence was broken by my cousin.

"You want to find out about how your grandfather's mother was not even his mother? The old man was illegitimate! The woman was a sing-song girl who became a concubine!"

"What?!" This was obviously news to my mother as well. At that point I couldn't tell if she was upset or confused.

"See, you don't want to play with history," fat cousin emphasised again.

Silence ensued while plates of Szechuan delicacies were brought to our table. I picked at the green peppercorns and stole looks at my mother in between. I wondered, what was the psyche of a woman who just found out her much admired father was a bastard?

"Well. That could explain why he was an outrageously good-looking man." She finally said, with a hint of smugness.

"The old man was still a bastard." Fat cousin insisted.

"Shut it!" I said defensively of the man who caught a tortoise for me the first time we met. "He was still your grandfather."

The uncomfortable silence continued.