A few years ago, Pixie and I lived in Vancouver as exchange students. It was a strange idea to go on exchange with one’s best friend, when the whole aim usually was to get away from all the regular friends and see if one can stand on own feet for six months. Some might say that we barely survived the experience, but that’s really a matter of opinion.

We share some of the fondest memories together with Rom-com and Pooh, fellow Aussies we had met at orientation one bitterly cold Vancouver morning. They are my sisters in arms; the only three other people in the world who can share my understanding in the significance of Richmond, Stanley Park, and of course, Tofino.

I often tell my other friends about my time in Vancouver. But they can never appreciate the stories as the four of us do. What were supposed to be funny anecdotes about my life there often become “this one time, in Vancouver” annoyances.

This one time, in Vancouver…

…Pixie and I were waiting for a 99 B-line at a bus stop on Granville Street to meet up with Rom-com in Richmond. A blue station wagon with American number plates slowly pulled up in front of us. The passenger rolled down the window. He looked frantic and scared, but despite his state of alarm, he was impeccable in manners.

“Excuse me, m’am. Do you know the way back to the United States of America?” The panicked man asked.

Always ones to be pleased with being mistaken as native Vancouverites, we were both very smug at the question posed at us. We were equally smug about our knowledge of Vancouver streets. Granville Street, running north to south, eventually leads to a sign that guides motorists to Bellingham and then onto Seattle.

“Mate, keep driving south along this street, you’ll get there,” we answered.

I met up with Gigglesworth tonight to celebrate her new job at The Very Sought After Bank. It was also the first time I got to meet her new boyfriend. I did what all good friends do in such situation -- sat still, not judge, and made witty commentary.

I think my efforts were well received. The "checking-out" was a mutual event. There was much pre-conceived ideas and images on both sides. But the sangria was well spiked, and much of the evening was passed in pleasantries, and occasional bursts of laughter.

The train ride into the city from the suburbs was a torturous affair. The carriages were packed to limit with high school science teachers. Their attires were the give away; brown leather lace ups, solid coloured shirts tucked into tanned trousers, and -- the piece de resistance -- black digital watches. Conversations were mild and casually anecdotal in reference to particular kids in class. Their youngs were chips of the old blocks in appearance, only the attires were somewhat updated. Tanned cargo pants with polo shirts not tucked in. The digital watches were the same. Perhaps an heirloom passed down from generations of high school science teachers.

I wondered at the significance of a train full of science teachers. Is there a secret society that they gather at each month? Are they on their way to such meetings to discuss ways to protect a very harmful secret? Was it a gathering to plot out this year's HSC papers?

As for the question posed in the title, I venture to guess that the magic word is "bunsen".

The Pixie and I clogged up the phone lines for three hours the other night. She had a very bad run of luck that day -- most of which was attributed to CityRail and their over-zealous appetite for profit (and blatant disregard for actually running the trains).

During the course of conversation, we remembered events surrounding a certain alcohol infested camp in second-year uni. Many a thing happened that weekend, none too splendoured, all too hazed.

We met Mr. Saudi Arabia at the camp. With blue eyes and blonde hair, he is not really from Saudi Arabia, but claimed he was to get Pixie's attention. The effect was adverse. His Sheikhness has been subject of our cruel jokes ever since. He was very pissed the first night of the camp. A nudie run was inevitable, though regretably, we missed his glory.

It was only this year that my paths crossed again with his Sheikhness and I still need a moment to maintain my giggles when in his glorious presence. His glory is now in other endeavours. He is the golden boy of the Statistics department. Lecturers beam at the mention of his Sheikhness. Had Pixie been as equally pissed, or more aware of his advances, she could very well on her way to be Mrs. Dr. Sheikh Saudi Arabia.

A mouthful to say, to be sure. But the glory! She laments the sailing of the her oil ship.

The Rather-Large-Bank does not have a "relocation imbursement" policy. I'm beginning to think ill of them. It's not like a $200 plane ticket is going to put a dent in shareholder profit, considering they had $100 million to throw around (and consequently lose) in the forex market.

The move is overwhelming me now. The euphoria has now subsided; all that is left is fear. I am praying that Flea's friend will still want me as a roommate next year. There is so much uncertainty in my plans. I used to pride myself on embracing changes, but if I had been given the choice of staying here or moving to Melbourne this week, I would definitely choose the former.

I was supposed to sign my contracts for Rather-Large-Bank and return them last week. I've still yet to do it. I filled in all the forms yesterday and got Boy Who Stole My Shoes to witness my signatures. Seemed only fair as we will be "colleagues" next year, albeit in different cities.

I made a giant mess of the tax form. It is now full of liquid paper marks. They will definitely shake their heads in dismay and send forms for me to redo.

I am at a crossroads, somewhat. The move is going to cost a lot, and no where in the contracts did it mention the magical words, "relocation reimbursement". I was under the impression that they will pay for some of the moving costs, at least the plane ticket down. But I am also chicken shit. Asking them for money makes me feel like a bogan standing in queue at Centrelink. I don't even ask Stinkylink for money when I'm entitled to it, so asking money from future employer is even more of an obstacle for me.

To ask or to not ask? Asking makes me feel cheap. Not asking makes me feel cheated.

Fuck it. Made up my mind. Will ask. What are they going to do? Fire me for asking? Before I've even returned the contracts? If it comes to that, Ray Martin will have something to say about such injustices against an honest little battler.

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.

There is less than eight weeks until my thesis is supposed to be polished and ready for presentation. So that should give me 56 days to write something adequate about the implied volatilities of financial options. This equates to about two pages a day, give or take.

Sounds reasonable.

But I am not biologically tuned to start work early, stretch out my arms and wave goodbye to the deadlines. Rather, I like staring at the deadline, give it an evil look or two, make it think that I might not catch it, and slam it flat as the clock ticks down. This is not a very good idea when one has to write a 100-page thesis on something one cares (or knows) very little about.

Starting tomorrow, I shall be better on terms with my thesis. I shall stop referring to it as a bitch or the devil in disguise.