A gorgeous Sunday afternoon was spent at Bobbin Head, rowing down the Hawkesbury River with the Very Good Friend and the Pilot. We rowed our version of the women’s cox eight at the Olympics, though the Pilot being a guy was not convincing nor menacing in response to my performance of Sally Robbins dropping the oar. He did not threat to throw me into the water, but only occasioned yells to “just fucking row!”

We were at the birthday party for Bubbles. I don’t know whether it is the getting on with age or not, but this year has seen a spout of birthday activities that did not involve expensive dinners, heavy drinking and excessive dancing at very dark clubs; activities that would have made us très cool when we were seventeen. Our methods for ringing in our twenty-third year have been tame and innocent. For Bubbles, this is particularly cause for concern. We are getting old.

My team of the Very Good Friend, the Pilot and yours truly were triumphant in defeating the other three boats. We were perhaps fifty boat lengths ahead of the rest while they were still trying to figure out the basic manoeuvres. Our ambitiousness (and Leo spirits) took us to the far orange buoy where the current was much stronger. This arrogance had to take a backseat when we eventually had to be towed back to the rest of the boats. From there, it was another competition -- though the other boats did not know of the contest -- for the race to the docks.

Bubbles, who is very affectionately named despite the name, has some rather skanky friends and cousins with shamefully ugly boyfriends. This observation is admittedly conceited but nonetheless true. I have never seen a group of more ugly men. Though they all drove BMWs and 4-wheel drives (without a spot of dirt on them), they were dealt a very bad hand when looks were handed out. Perhaps they have very good personalities. Though, that is debatable based on the following.

I saw two boxes Krispy Kreme donuts as we were leaving Bubbles’ house earlier in the morning. I immediately offered my assistance to carry them to the car.

Me: Ooh. I love these. [This was said partly to make conversation with a roomful of people I hardly knew.]

Ugly guy #1 [very darkly]: Yeh. Of course you do. You look like the kind that would.

Hmm. An ugly guy implied that I was fat. Let’s just make it clear that he was very short, definitely not healthily proportioned and with a girl who can only be described as “pre-pubescent” looking.

I am not fat. True, I am slightly larger (in both height and weight) than those of similar Asian extractions, but after years of self-doubt, and several years of convincing from ex-admirers, I know that fat is not something used to describe me. At a size eight, I can hardly be deemed fat. I choose not to look like a stick as many other girls of my people do.

I like my Krispy Kremes, and shall remain dedicated in my devotion.