Between the two of us, my best mate Pixie and I exhibit the most comprehensive knowledge of movie and music history. I recently got her hooked on the Internet Movie Database website. Every couple of days, I get a 'did-you-know' phone call from her.

'Did you know that Colin Firth is going to be in a new movie playing a lobotomist?' she said this afternoon.

'No. No way. He can't break my heart like that. It was bad enough he was in that stupid What a Girl Wants.' I replied, feeling a little like a disappointed lover who just discovered that the object of her affection fancied her brother.

'Maybe Livia wants the money,' she said of Colin Firth's Italian wife.

'And he might be thinking about sending Luca and Matteo to some expensive snobby private school.' I resignedly admitted that Mr Darcy already has kids with his Italian wife.

Pixie is the only friend who can comprehend such a devastation.

A few days ago, I was talking to the Mallavian Whiz. The difference in conversation is very clear. There is no mutual understanding at all.

'Knuckle Head is very particular about his food. He orders in a certain way,' said the MW of a guy he has classes with.

'You mean like in When Harry Met Sally?'

'Who?' asked the MW.

'When Harry Met Sally! The movie? Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan?! You've never seen that?!' I was a little exasperated.

'No. So, Harry is a picky orderer at restaurants too?' the MW innocently asked.

`No! Sally! It's SALLY who's the picky orderer!' I almost screamed. 'Have you seen Sleepless in Seattle? Blackadder? Monty Python? Bridget Jones' Diary? ...'

He just kept shaking his head, much to my disbelief.

'You have to be a picky orderer in South Korea,' the MW finally said when I had stopped listing film names.

'When were you in South Korea?' I asked.

'A couple of years ago, when I was there for the IMO.'

'For what? International Monetary Organisation?' I asked.

'No. That's IMF. International Monetary Fund. IMO is International Mathematics Olympiad.'

'Oh,' I said, suddenly feeling very stupid. I suppose that's why the MW is the one going for the university medal and Colin Firth still remains the single most significant relationship in my life.

The most surprising thing of 2004 has been my newfound friendship with the Mallavian Whiz. For a large part of my undergrad years, he has been a mere speckle on my radar; I noticed him, I thought he was slightly odd and I never really acknowledged his presence except to poke fun at his oddness.

It wasn’t until this year that I actually began to talk to the MW. And it wasn’t until recently that the MW and I started to converse about things other than Stochastic Calculus. I am ashamed to admit that I only started talking to him because I needed help with assignments that I couldn’t figure out on my own.

Now upon closer acquaintance, I feel like a male lead in a teen comedy. I am Freddie Prinze Jr., who suddenly realises that some Hilary Duff or similar character is quite interesting behind a façade of Mallavian Calculus.

Before I get any further, I should note that the MW and I are not about to conclude the chapter with an ending worthy of a teen comedy. Don’t expect any sentimental violin solos accompanying the MW sashaying down the stairs of his parents’ house in a slinky prom dress with me ready to tie a corsage on his wrist.

The MW thinks I am quite mad. The other day we were discussing the constant bickering between China and Taiwan. I likened it to a couple experiencing a bad break up that has lasted over fifty years.

“The thing is, MW, if you really love someone, you should set them free,” I said, jokingly.

The MW, being the serious man that he is, was unimpressed and speechless. I don’t think my likening him to Hilary Duff will be of any comfort either.

Polly's momma is not unlike Polly. She gets herself into all sorts of mess and hilarity.

Momma likes to haggle. Her philosophy in life is "don't buy if it's not half off". This applies to every store, which makes shopping at some of the more trendy establishments very embarrassing.

Yesterday, momma's haggling ways got her into a spot of bother. She still pretends to be naive, but dear readers, my momma's hot and the world is not innocent.

Just like on any regular afternoon, my momma went shopping, this time for some ugg boots and lanolin moisturiser for a visiting relative. She popped into a new souvenir store that has recently opened nearby, brewing a storm for its unknowing owner. She managed to bring the price of a bottle of lanolin down to two dollars from six.

Never one to miss out on a deal, she proceeded to buy eight dozen bottles. Yes, that's over one hundred bottles of weird sheep's fat for moisturising purposes.

Now, realising that eight dozen bottles is going to be heavy and she is forbidden to drive under any circumstances (another one of her stories, maybe for another time), she asked the store owner to hold the goods until she can get a friend to pick them up.

"Oh, no. That's all right," the store owner said. "I'll drop it off at your place after I close up."

"No, no, that's too much trouble," hot momma coyly said.

"Really no trouble. Just give me your address and phone number and I'll come over after five. "

"Oh, you're too nice," hot momma exclaimed, thinking it can't be true that her daughter claims chivalry to be dead.

"Now, just write down your details here. You can pay me when I've delivered them."

* * *
My momma later got her cousin to pick up her crazy purchases, but the smitten store owner has called twice today already.

And that's my hot momma. Dad is a very lucky man. If he wasn't so reserved, I imagine he would boast about this to his mates at the pub.
The last episode of Sex and the City finally aired tonight. I was rather disappointed. After six years of emotional investments, I am left feeling like I've accidentally dropped the last piece of a thoroughly enjoyed chocolate brownie on the floor.

Perhaps what was more of a let down was Mr Big's name.

John. Fucking John! Out of all the names in the world, and after having six years to come up with a name for Big, they decided call him John. I was livid.

I've had problems with the name John. I don't seem to have much luck with Johns. They're either liars of the most generic type, or annoying weasels of the can't-exchange-can't-refund-can't-get-rid-of variety. Now, I take extra precaution when introduced to people with the name John. I even heed the warning bells when they are its foreign counterparts, like Jean or Ioan (unless it's Gruffudd, in which case, I will wrap him in a bow and send him to Pixie).

Perhaps John is an appropriate name for Big. He certainly possessed the troublesome characteristic of a John. I think I can now come to terms with this oversight on part of the writers. On the contrary, I commend their impeccable insight into the elaborate psyche of Johns.
The house was run amok by the Bald Baby, a delightful two-year-old boy of my kind parents' friends who stayed with us over the weekend. He is, by far, the best and brightest two-year-old of my acquaintance.

He is also the only two-year-old of my acquaintance, so my judgements could be a little biased.

It's been a very wet weekend thus far. I've been sneezed on and peed on by the Bald Baby. Yes, despite the germs and the smell, he is still one very much loved boy.

The Bald Baby doesn't have much hair. In a vain attempt for his hair to grow back thicker, his mother had it all shaved off. In another vain attempt to acquire a head full of luxuriously thick locks, the Bald Baby stole his uncle's Rogaine and smeared half a bottle's worth on his head.

Have I mentioned that he is two?

This weekend, he has reinacted the story of the boy who cried wolf. Except, in the Bald Baby's case, he cries "poo".

Imagine this. A picture perfect family, with a recently borrowed two-year-old addition, sat down to a feast cooked by the matriarch. The two-year-old did not want to eat. He wanted to play on the computer and look at old videos of himself. But he was trapped.

"Poo poo!" he suddenly cried. A mass panic ensued around the dinner table. Two otherwise calm adults rushed in hysteria to fetch the potty, while the third lifted the Bald Baby off the high chair.

The Bald Baby looked around at the three mad adults surrounding him. He smiled and slowly broke into fits of giggles. While we were dazed and confused, he ran off to the computer.

Now picture this. Three very tired adults were trying to get ready for bed. One of them was especially buggered from climbing up and down the stairs with the Bald Baby because it had amused him greatly. With bountiful energy, he did not want to sleep.

"Poo poo!" he cried after two minutes lying down. Another mad dash for the potty found the Bald Baby at the computer again.

Just like the boy who cried wolf, we were smart enough not to believe him again. And just like the boy who cried wolf, the Bald Baby spoke the truth the third time around.
With little drama, and a mere two year separation from my mum, dad and I leapt off a Qantas jumbo jet and ran into mum's arms. Truthfully, though, only I ran. Dad was very dignified and did not cause a scene.

I was nine years old. Not old enough to have the typical reserved-ness instilled in me. As years went by, it became clear that being reserved and being Polly never meshed well together.

For a long time after moving here, I tried very hard to be less Chinese. I lost my accent after three months. When I speak to my parents, it is in Mandarin, but very slowly because all my thoughts seem to be in English. To my family, I talk like a retarded kid with a nine-year-old vocabulary.

It wasn't until I finished high school that my warped little head thought it would be cool to be Chinese again. Maybe it's because there were more people of similar extractions at university (c'mon, do you expect an Asian kid not go to uni?).

My attempt to find my roots led me to sign up as a volunteer interpreter at the Sydney Olympics. I love sport. I love talking. It was time to contribute.

Even with my fourth-grade-level vocabulary, I was deemed good enough to mingle with the Chinese athletes. Hilarity ensued.

I worked primarily with the Chinese diving team. The first time was at the FINA Diving World Cup, a pre-Olympic event that was supposed to be a rehearsal for the real thing seven months later. Doping control and media interviews were my main responsibilities. I preferred the latter.

On my second day, I was asked by the language manager to escort the super hunky Tian Liang to doping control. So off goes innocent little Polly into the divers' warm down area to inform the two-time Olympic champion (though at the time he was still up-and-coming but already showing his talent).

I found Tian Liang talking to another Chinese diver (obviously not good-looking enough for me to remember his name). I should also mention that I was in heaven in the warm down area. Naked torsoes everywhere.

Tian Liang saw me walking towards him. He smiled and nodded at me.

"You want me to piss in a bottle, don't you?" he asked in Mandarin.

It took a while before I registered that he had said the word "piss". I muttered in agreement and told him I would meet him across the pool.

[Really, I could turn this into a love story, worthy of Harlequin.]

Fifteen minutes later, we gathered at the doping control area with officials from FINA. An important-looking man, who answered only to Doc, shook Liang's hand for a disturbingly long time.

"Now, Polly, can you tell Tian Liang here that he did very well tonight but he will still have to go through an urine test?" Doc asked.

I relayed the messaged in Mandarin. But in taking care not to miss any words, I spoke even slower than my usual pace. Liang kindly nodded and smiled at my every word.

"Sure," the very obliging young man answered.

"Now, Polly, can you tell Tian Liang that when he goes behind that curtain there, I will follow him. He will be required to take out his penis and urinate in this container here. I will have to have full view of him while he does this," Doc said while I jotted down his words.

I was mortified. Liang had only fifteen minutes ago reminded me how to say "piss" in Mandarin and now I had to say "penis". I had only just turned eighteen. I could barely say the word in English in front of strangers. Liang -- bless him -- kept very calm throughout my trance. At last, Polly spoke.

"He wants you to piss in front of him. And he wants to see you take out your ji ji," I finally said in Mandarin, recalling the word my three-year-old cousin once used to call his wiener.

The multiple world champion and world cup winner did not bat an eyelash. He smiled (or maybe it was a smirk) and followed Doc behind the curtain.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is why Tian Liang is a classy athlete. Later, he even thanked me for my feeble efforts. He commented that I was to the point. Yes, Polly does not beat around the bush. We had a delightful chat while he waited for his coach to pick him up.

Seven months later, I was the interpreter for his interview after he won gold in the ten metre platform. A reporter later told me that she noticed a glint in his eyes as he watched me bluff my way through the interview.

I suppose it was an urine test we both shall not forget.
I will be on a self-imposed sabbatical from this page until 29 November.

Damn exams and that bitch of a thesis.

Damn that Chinese practicality and hunger for all things academic.

(Picture taken in Rotorua, on the north island of New Zealand. The blurriness of the water is not due to my poor photographic skills. It is steam rising from the water. Rotorua is in an active volcanic region.)

Beautiful and fabulous New Zealand. Land of hobbits, elves, men and dwarves, living together in harmony.

And now the destination for ye who are tired and weary, those who are tempest tossed; the homeless, hungry, poor, the wretched, sinful lost. The huddled masses who yearn to be free gather there. From a weary world of darkness, come ye unto her. Her yoke is easy, her burden light, there’s rest on the peaceful shore, she lifts her lamp eternally beside the golden door.

I came across this little tid-bit of news on Channel NewsAsia. It made me laugh that there could be this mass exodus to that sweet little place across the Tasman.

It reminded me of the day after the Australian election four weeks ago. The Bear and I were discussing the horrible result and the possible bleak future ahead of us. Disheartened and furious, the Bear declared:

"Fuck this. I'm moving to New Zealand."

It seems he is not the only one. Many hobbits, elves, dwarves and men from several shires will be in search of Gandalf the Grey, to destroy the one ring that enslaves them all.

The nightmarish Friday has drawn a close and I now begin the day, like many other young single girls about town, with a slight headache from consuming a little too much wine.

Yesterday was my last official day of uni. There is still a thesis talk, three exams and that bitch of a thesis to attend to. But official is official. I am on my way out into the big bad world.

I searched for my notes in the honours room to take home and study. I had lent them to the Bear a few days ago. So the nightmare began.

I found my notebook under a pile of his rubbish papers; in tatters, with the spiral wires all bent out of shape. The state of notebook made me short of breath. It was so beautiful when I handed it to him on Tuesday. My pathological neatness was best reflected in those notes.

A more ghastly thought occurred to me later. The Bear sometimes goes to the toilet with an armful of notes and textbooks. Sometimes he even announces to the rest of the room that he is going to "get some good thinking done." I was mortified at the thought that, maybe, in a fit of constipation, he tore my notes apart.

Now I will have to re-write them. Have to remember to get a pair of rubber gloves too.

The shock of my notes subsided when I met up with some friends later in the evening to celebrate Pixie's new employment at the Quite Impressive Financial Consortium. We were a merry company of four until I had a Bogart moment.

“Out of all the two-hatted-SMH-food-guide restaurants in Sydney, he steps into mine, seated a mere three feet from my table.”

Slight heart cracks upon quick conversation with the unexpected arrival. When I returned to my table, I proceeded to finish off my glass of wine and Pixie's too. I am at my loudest when I have some pinot noir in me. Not just pinot. Pretty much anything fermented would do. I wanted the unexpected arrival to hear that I ain't doing too shabby lately. The pinot noir was good. I had my friends laughing with their heads thrown back in the most classy yet noticeable way.

The restaurant had one of those small but trendy unisex bathroom. Very Ally McBeal. I walked in and could not help but notice a strangely attractive creature staring at me. I was quite intimidated and walked right into her.

The bathroom was darkly lit and covered floor to ceiling with mirrors.