Sometimes, circumstances are just funnier in hindsight.

Having not written anything besides credit memorandums, presentation slides and other work related materials in almost three months, I was rather excited with my scribblings last week.

‘What did you think?’ I asked Pixie. ‘Did you like it?’

‘Yes, but it was very sad. I had no idea things went that bad with Captain Haddock,’ Pixied sympathized.

‘Well…’ I said, not really wanting to dwell on it.

‘It’s like things can go wrong without you realizing, and you keep on clinging onto the good parts that made you happy even though they don’t last very long,’ she wisely reflected.

‘Yes, well, like Mr Miyagi has proven, sometimes shit happens,’ I concluded.

Mr. Miyagi

Roomie #1 took home a stray cat from the veterinary clinic last week. A skinny grey thing who we’ve taken to call Mr. Miyagi. I liked him immediately, despite my fears of being bitten and clawed.

I have never had a pet in my life. The closest thing that came to a four-legged creature within the vicinity of our house was a stray cat Mum and I used to feed. But it was hardly ours; it was fed by practically every other house in the neighbourhood.

We cooed and fretted over Mr. Miyagi. Despite being officially Roomie #1’s pet, Roomie #2 and I showered him with love and material goods – a scratching post and loads of toys.

“He is the cutest thing ever!” I told Mum over the phone.

“Mr. Miyagi is very smart too. He knows which cupboard holds his food.” I told Pixie over the phone.

“Why would you get a cat? Cats never love you back,” Pixie asked. “It’s all taking with them.”

“Cats are gross. They lick themselves all the time.” Miss Unsubtle was on the same page as Pixie.

But Mr. Miyagi had my heart; though my fear of being scratched still kept me from picking him up to properly cuddle him. As days passed, I watched him grow closer to Roomie #2 as he purred in her arms.

My fondness for Mr. Miyagi froze on the fourth night. While both Roomies were at work, I found myself alone facing Mr. Miyagi and his poo underneath the Christmas tree.

There is something about cleaning someone’s poo off the carpet that makes them seem less perfect.

After the poo-on-carpet incident, I took to a sterner tone when dealing with Mr. Miyagi. I ignored his presence in the house.

Mr. Miyagi ran away two nights ago. Roomie #1 was devastated. I was, in contrast, secretly happy. I hoped he would stay away forever, though I insincerely consoled Roomie #1 with a lot of “maybe he’ll find his way home”s.

Roomie #1’s tears were stopped midstream last night when the front door buzzed, announcing the return of Mr. Miyagi.

Roomies were both ecstatic at Mr. Miyagi’s triumphant and safe return. More love and food were thrown at him than ever before.

“We’re never letting you out again, Mr. Miyagi!!”

“We’re going to overfeed you so that you’ll be too fat to run away!”

Though I was happy that he was back, my enthusiasm was at a level somewhat below those of Roomies’ – I still remembered vividly the smell and texture of Mr. Miyagi’s number 2’s in a thin plastic bag against my hand.

Can Mr. Miyagi and I go back to the way we were? Can I even take a step further and start cuddling him?

At least I fed him tonight without saying in a reproachful tone, “now, Mr. Miyagi, you poo this in the kitty litter, okay?”


Captain Haddock

I first met Captain Haddock earlier this year. His beard reminded me of the Herge comic book character from Tintin. I was immediately attracted to his honesty and sense of humour. I don’t remember ever laughing that much while on a date. I liked him, despite my fears of being scratched by his beard.

It is a point of worthy debate that I have ever had a proper boyfriend. The closest person to have come to that role was another bearded fellow who had several other girlfriends.

I gave Captain Haddock rave reviews. I was equally well received one night when I met his friends. While Polly of the old would have been guarded with her feelings, Polly of the new was recklessly forward following what she deemed the best first date ever.

“I had a fantastic time. I would love to see you again very soon,” was communicated to Captain Haddock when I would have usually waited for the Captains to drop by when they are next at my port.

It was a fantastic second date too.

“Captain Haddock is hilarious! And smart!” I told Pixie and Miss Unsubtle, sheepishly admitting that I fancy Captain Haddock.

But I still had my fears. I still held a deep irrational fear of being scratched by his beard (feel free to interpret this metaphorically). Our good night kisses were awkward. The first time we tried it, he accidentally let go of his break and rolled the car down the hill outside my house. The second time we tried to accomplish the task, I pulled away too soon.

At the end of our third date, by which point we were both slightly drunk, I felt the prickly bits of whiskers rub slowly up my neck, around my cheek and towards my lips. I pulled away again.

How I curse that moment now!

The fourth date was disaster.

“You know when I walked out of the bookshop for a while just then?” he asked. We had been shopping on Brunswick St.

“Yeah…”

“I had to step outside because I farted next to the erotic origami books. Smelled bad.”

Oh lord, I thought. Have we fallen into such a level of comfort that flatulence is a topic of regular discussion? Or did he mistakenly think I pulled away from snogging him because I wanted to be just friends?

Captain Haddock’s flatulence and (now) brutal honesty cast a dark cloud over my perception of him. I still cringe when I think about events of the fourth date.

“How’s Captain Haddock?” many would still ask even though it has been weeks since I last saw him. He has, in effect, run away too.

The parallel between Captain Haddock and Mr. Miyagi occurred to me today. I secretly hope that he will return too. I may even overlook his troubles with gaseous discharge.

* Names have been changed to protect the privacy of both Captain Haddock and Mr. Miyagi

‘Do you have to be the best in everything you do?’ Farm Boy asked me a couple of months ago on a trip along the Great Ocean Road with Sparkles.

‘What do you mean “have to be the best”? I know I am the best,’ I said in earnest, with just a hint of arrogance.

But tonight, I write with a bruised ego. I admit defeat; that I am not the best at everything, that I am rather appalling in certain arenas.

Choreographed dance, per example.

I know, for a fact, that I am the hottest little pocket rocket when it comes to free form dancing at clubs. I am the disco queen. My antics on the Gold Coast a couple of weeks ago provide ample evidence that I am the disco queen.

But choreographed dance such as salsa classes are my Achilles heel. I went to one tonight at the Copa Cabana with Ms Perfect. I was crap-o-la. Dog’s breakfast. I was no better than the class I went to for High School Rival’s wedding late last year. There was no lovely Emery to call me “muffins”, but there were plenty ugly balding men, most of whom were named “Adam”.

‘You’ve gotta loosen up. Bend your knees,’ said Adam #1, who refused to hold my hand.

‘Don’t lead. You follow. You follow?’ demanded Adam#2, who was my least favourite.

‘Stop trying to lead,’ explained Adam #3, a munchkin-sized man with bigger boobs than me.

‘You’re doing great, but I’m the one who leads, okay?’ said Adam #4, a gorgeous man/boy of unspecified extraction and undetermined age. He had an afro that I wanted to run my fingers through.

‘You’re the worst person I’ve ever danced with,’ said Adam #5, whose brutal honesty cut me into pieces. I could only take in comfort that I will always have better and more hair than him.

I watched with pure envy as Ms Perfect ignited the dance floor with her partner. She twisted, she turned, she loosened, she followed, without ever losing balance or forgetting the “one-two-three, four-five-six” beats. Oh, how I wished to have a body that twisted in such a way! Why, oh, why are there bones in my body??

Many Adams asked Ms Perfect to dance with them after the class finished and the real dancing began. I, the poor little wallflower, stood bravely near a wall until a tiny man (another Adam) asked me to salsa with him.

Tiny Adam was worse than me. He also did not make a good conversationalist.

‘It’s good music, this.’ He said, when we did the basic salsa steps.

I nodded.

‘It’s good music, this.’ He said again, when we cuccaracha’d.

I nodded again.

‘It’s very good music, this.’ He said, in a slightly different way. He had tried to spin me, only he found himself spinning around instead, ‘You know you’re not supposed to lead, right?’

Morale has not been high for a while now at the Rather-Large-Bank. The CEO blames the media laying the slipper in and his minions have found all sorts of ways to make us sigh with giddiness at the sight of that shiny logo of ours.

Yesterday, while I was at home pretending to be sick, my team had a bake off.

“Polly!” said Shag-Fiend Director this morning, “you missed the bake off.”

She was not particularly enthused. Rather, she said it as though it was a blessing; that I had made the right choice to stay home and watch Days of Our Lives while Fat Global Head and No Neck Head of Risk battled each other out for baking supremacy.

Last week, when I was still doe-eyed about my future at the Rather-Large-Bank, the team got together for a catch up session. On a round table, where I was again the youngest of everyone, we had to tell each other what path we would take had banking not got the better of us.

“Professional golfer.”

“Editor of Vogue.”

“Chemist.”

“Civil Engineer.”

“Gigolo.”

“Shoe designer,” said Shag-Fiend Director.

The best one came from Francois, the Frenchiest man of my acquaintance. He speaks with a flowing rhythm, almost lyrical, but his face remains expressionless no matter the topic.

“Vell, I always thought,” he began, “I vould be, very good in adveetersing.”

Sniggers.

“In France, ve have very little adveetersing. It is only cars and vashing poadar… It is very generick. It is very easee to say that my shirt is cleaner and vyiter than yours, Fat Global Head. But I think I can really sex up vashing poadar…”

Uncontrolled laughter.

I wish my penchant for accents could shine through in writing.

7:00 am Alarm on mobile goes off. Tchaikovsky’s Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies never sounded so annoying at any other time of the day.

7:12 am Gosh, twelve minutes go by fast. Why hasn’t Fabulous Flatmate gotten up yet? Maybe set the alarm wrong.

Nope. Was right. I have to get up soon. I need to wash hair and blow dry it straight so that hair can go “whoosh” whenever I turn my head slightly. “Whoosh” is good. I am sure the Very Fine Energy Industries Director notices “whoosh” of hair.

7:30 am I am still very peeved about not working in Sydney for the week. Why get my hopes up and let conjure up all sorts of delightful working-in-Sydney scenarios in my head over the weekend, only to tell me on Monday that “sorry, you’ll be doing the same thing in Melbourne instead”? I had the whole week – mostly involving lunches with Pixie and Sparkles, and drinks and dance floor grooves at 333 on Friday night. Very mad still. Silent protest at desk (i.e. not doing any constructive work all afternoon) yesterday was obviously not enough.

7:34 am That’s it. I will call in sick. It’s the grand tradition. I will only be un-Australian for not doing it.

7:38 am But it is childish.

7:46 am Fuck that. Am not going. I deserve a day to wallow in self-pity and silent protest while watching day-time TV.

7:50 am “Hi, Shag-Fiend Director. Sorry I can’t make it today. I got a bit of a cold from walking home in the rain last night. See you tomorrow.”

7:51 am Back to sleep. Very good sleep. Why didn’t I think of this earlier? Always, always embrace tradition.

1:05 am Ooh. I had forgotten how good Dr Phil is. Very smart man. Put me on right path. I am no longer angry at Rather-Large-Bank for being budget-cutting cold-blooded wanker-breeding institution. Destiny is in own hands. There are more important things in life than missing out on a business trip. It will come in due time.

1:06 am Commendable insight to pull a sickie.

1. Will write more and write better; attend the Melbourne Writers’ Festival, sponge their knowledge, apply own wit, churn out best seller and quit Rather-Large-Bank.


2. Be more assertive at work – less “umm…I think you are wrong”, but more “you’re completely off the radar”.


3. Will do tax return. Very important. Perhaps should be at number 1.


4. Procrastinate less. Not everything is like an honours’ year thesis; deadlines are not usually at the end of the year.


5. Will stop harbouring affections for men who are already in serious relationships, because despite how perfectly caring and sweet they seem with you, they will still spend Sunday afternoons baking gluten-free banana bread for their gluten-intolerant girlfriends.


6. Will stop harmless flirtations with balding divorcees that are bordering on inappropriateness – please, no more “You want a good morning kiss? What do I get in return?” You know what you get in return. A tram full of passengers staring back at you in horror while you talk dirty to your mobile at eight-thirty in the morning.


7. Will cook more at home – because a dinner out costs at least twenty bucks, at four times a week is eighty dollars a week, $320 a month and an overly large number a year.


8. Will be nicer to people – because it is not very becoming to have topic of conversation constantly stalled at “effing Gold Buttons…so effing stupid”.


9. Will be more tolerant of people, be they of different race (please stop the “he’s such a dumb white boy” talk), intelligence (see number 8), and aesthetic value (declarations of “eww” will only get you so far).


10. Be more understanding to parents; be more Asian and contribute more to their mortgage repayments because you are the apple of their deluded eyes, please let the delusion continue.


11. Keep up the delusional self-confidence. It has been a good year of inflated ego.


12. Will be kinder to the boys you’ve turned down in the past. Stop making them the butt of all your jokes, even though they are very funny jokes and are most often only slightly exaggerated.


13. Be less concerned if you happen to spend a Friday night alone with just your thoughts and your laptop.


14. Will be less messy – it is not very becoming nor efficient having to step over books, clothes and shoes just to move an inch.


15. Try to make it to work before 8:45 am. This is already 15 minutes later than everybody else, who are we kidding here with a 30-minute late entrance?


16. Write more about your friends. You promised Hermione something about her at Easter. You haven’t delivered. And only one entry on Sparkles? Piss-weak effort. And it’s been a while since we have heard of Pixie, Pooh and Gigglesworth. Embrace the source of your happiness.


17. Not everything has to be about the Heartbreaker and the Divorcee. See number 16.


18. Will email friends less at work. No wait. Will balance working and emailing with greater efficiency.


19. Will try to be less of a whinger. Not everyone needs to know for the umpteenth time how much of an idiot Gold Buttons is at work.


20. Will try to limit browsing of celebrity gossip web pages to a minimum – read only the weekly Ted Casablanca “The Awful Truth” column, because knowing exactly how Jennifer found out about Brad and Angelina is not entirely of use to career prospects.


21. Engage, maverick, engage. Find that tall, dark, handsome, sensitive but macho, neat but not closet, Asian-ly aware but not suffering from yellow fever, intelligent man. Key notes: no more Heartbreakers, no more Divorcees.


22. But not make that a priority. Who are we kidding here? You’re only 24. Still a lot of time to make mistakes.


23. Twenty-three was a good year. Don’t forget that.
    


24. Keep list-making to a minimum.

There's nothing better than a cocktail at Ellis Street Lounge to beat those Tuesday blues. Wouldn't you agree, Sparkles?

I have never been one to get up before lunch on weekends. With the short days of winter, I see about three hours of daylight on my days off. I care little for breakfast, or brunch. So it was without surprise that the one meal I had at Tiffany’s was late afternoon tea.

On a lazy Saturday afternoon, after yum cha at Shark Fin House, Sparkles and I debated the plan for the rest of the day.

“How about a stroll around the Botanic Gardens?” I asked.

“I need to go to the loo,” Sparkles answered, “and the nice loo in David Jones is not on the way.”

An idea suddenly sparked. “What about Tiffany’s?”

“Yes!!” Sparkles replied, eyes sparkling.

“But we’re not allowed to buy anything! Stop me before I start buying,” I said with as much honesty as an alcoholic at happy hour.

The signature Tiffany jewels dazzled inside the polished counters. We were in heaven.

“Look at those earrings!” “I like that bracelet!” “Miss Unsubtlety has that necklace!”

“I passed my CA exams last week,” Sparkles said suddenly. I knew exactly what she was thinking.

“Well…I suppose you can get a silver necklace as a self-congratulatory present.” I said, before rationalizing, “And my birthday IS coming up soon.”

“That Atlas necklace could be an early birthday present to you from me,” she said, pointing to a delightful silver sparkler I had drooled over.

“And I need to give you something for passing your CA exams,” I said, nodding my head toward the Elsa Peretti open heart.

Transaction was completed in less than twenty minutes. We happily walked out with our first ever little blue boxes in little blue bags. At Laurent, our current favourite French Patisserie, we exchanged presents.

“Aww, you didn’t have to!” “It’s exactly what I wanted!” “How on earth did you know?”

According to a Melbourne urban myth, Barbie dolls stripped of their itsy-bitsy clothes walk the city streets on late nights. One night, while out with Pixie, Cartman and several other visiting friends, we came across our first ever wondering Barbie. A passerby was as amused by her as us and insisted on being in the photo.

A new pair of shoes courtesy of the half-yearly sales. Marc Jacobs. 50% off. I think I've done well.

Pixie, Gigglesworth, what do you think??

In light of recent change in work environment, that is, the new reporting line in the form of my Shag-Fiend Director (formerly known as Band Geek Manager), I wonder how the following will go down at bars and pubs:

"Hi, I need to shag you now to further my career. We might not work in the same company, but I need to shag you. Now."

I think Shag-Fiend Director is trying to live the single life through me. I got the "have a nice weekend, Polly, I expect a full report on Monday" as left my desk yesterday. She really picked the wrong person to report. So far this weekend, I have not left my bed except to go to the loo. See, I am not a fox like her. Men tend to run away from me.

Italian Stallion, per example. We had met a few weeks ago, and had quite a long conversation (one which I secretly hoped would blossom into a meaningful relationship whereby we would be the king and queen of jaw-dropping attractiveness).

My friend, Miss Unsubtlety, unaware of my acquaintance with Italian Stallion, introduced us again at a work function last week.

"Polly, have you met Italian Stallion? He's single." She said with her left eyebrow raised in bemusement.

"Oh really?" I said, raising my right eyebrow in response to Italian Stallion's availability. Unfortunately, he was not available for very long -- he promptly left our circle of madness and excused himself from the function.

My eyes followed him as his long legs carried his fine broad shoulders out of the room. Haha! You can't run that far, Italian Stallion, I thought to myself, because I am moving up to your floor next week!

Obviously, I can handle rejection and lack of interest very well. But this really provides no source for a good shagging story as requested by Shag Fiend Director. Will just have to drag myself out of bed now and go for a run. Perhaps there will be some delicious jogger going around and around and around Princes Park.

This week is the start of my second rotation. I feel the pressure to perform for the first time since joining the Rather-Large-Bank. No more Easygoing Manager keeping me updated on the trials and tribulations of Pommy Dude and Half Pint Hottie. I feel out of my depth and far from my comfort zone.

Of course, all this uneasiness has nothing to do with work. Pft. As if. Work is child’s play in comparison to other expectations.

My new manager is in her thirties and a bit of a ball-breaker behind an unassuming façade – much like the band geek girl in American Pie. Finally! A woman of power to respect and emulate instead of the usual forty-something balding male executives, I thought to myself yesterday. As we chatted about our ambitions and interests, I felt an instant rapport between us. My Band Geek Manager is funny and unpretentious. And she seemed to love me instantly too.

“You’ve totally got the respect of Band Geek Manager now,” Heartbreaker told me as we walked back to the Rather-Large-Bank building after lunch. He had previously been working in my rotation.

“Really?” My eyes lit up. It was almost like in year 10 when I was told that the computer geek whom I had a crush on felt the same way about me.

“Yep. She thinks you’re great.”

“Really? Aww…I love her too. She even said I can do some due diligence work interstate sometime soon,” I said, recalling the conversation I had with Band Geek Manager yesterday.

“She’s fantastic to work with. You can learn a lot and still have a great time,” said Heartbreaker. “But you might have to share some good shag stories with her.”

“What!?”

“Well…she thinks you’re going to have some funny shag stories to tell.”

“WHAT?!!” I shrieked again.

“You’re single, right? So she’s expecting wild-single-girl-about-town stories to share.”

“But I have none! I spend most weekends scared that I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life!”

“No you don’t. Besides, I already told her about that make out session you had over the Anzac weekend.” Heartbreaker said nonchalantly, unaware that this could well tarnish the professional front I have been trying to carve out for the past four months.

“But there was no sex! It was just making out!”

“Yeah. She said she can respect that, but expects more next time.”

“What about you? Did you share your shag stories with her?” I asked.

“No. I’ve been going out with my girlfriend for three years. We have no fun shag stories anymore.” Heartbreaker said disappointedly.

“Oh.” I said, trying to feign sympathy. “But what am I supposed to do about my non-existent wild-bachelorette stories?”

“As if that’s true!” Heartbreaker said unbelievingly. “You’ve got all these men hanging about.”

How I wished that to be true! Why is it that people think I have the most fabulous life surrounded by hot men and yet I spent the last Saturday night surrounded by dirty laundry?? I looked very unconvinced.

“The Divorcee, for example? What’s happening there?” he continued. “Anyway, you can always just make it up.”

“Make it up?? I am so out of my depth. You have no idea.”

“Don’t worry. You have an overactive imagination.” Heartbreaker tried to ease the anxiety.

Paging overactive imagination (it’s a good thing I have one)! Please conjure up fanciful sexual delights to further Polly’s career prospects.

I have a cold. My nose is a leaky tap that refuses to be turned off. All I want is some hot tea.

But hot tea is one of the commodities that I will have to live without -- hot tea and heating and everything that is powered on electricity.

All I have is a lavender scented candle and three hours of battery life on my laptop. The power to the little house in Brunswick has been shut off. Some git at the power company thinks our name does not exist on their list. Some other git’s name is on their list and that git has not been paying his bill. So by some strange logic, we do not have power and I’m shivering in the cold comforted by a lonely candle.

Nevertheless, it was fun for a while. After dinner (a romantic meal by the candle light courtesy of the Colonel), I got out my guitar and sang a little ditty with my Loopy Flatmate entitled “O Brunswick, Why Art Thou So Shit”.

It was very catchy.

“Polly, did you hear the latest gossip?” asked Easygoing Manager excitedly as I walked back to my desk after lunch.

Easygoing Manager is in his thirties. He looks the part of the most accomplished Rugby Union fullback, battle scars and all. But when it comes to office gossip, it is a sin to be left out of the loop, even if one is purposely built for a rugby scrum.

I, too, was all ears.

“Pommy Dude is going out with Half Pint Hottie! They just started going out this week!” he said with a distinguished enthusiasm that would make Mary Hart of Entertainment Tonight proud.

Oh, my poor poor heart! Pommy Dude! And Half Pint Hottie!

I kept my composure and listened to the romantic entanglements of the office’s very own Posh and Becks.

“You haven’t heard? Pull up a chair, Polly,” Easygoing Manager started. “I had a feeling that Half Pint Hottie was keen on Pommy Dude. Remember the time we played soccer with them? She was in a mini skirt doing scissor kicks whenever he got the ball. You just have a gut feeling when something like that happens.”

This little cheerleading act obviously escaped my attention. All I remember from that day was the flying goal I scored past Pommy Dude’s (incompetent) hands.

“Anyway, that’s not the whole story,” Easygoing Manager continued. “You see, they were both with other partners not long ago. Half Pint Hottie was even engaged to be married! I’ve got to call Two-Packs-A-Day to tell him. Wonder if he knows. He sits next to Pommy Dude.”

“Two-Packs! Did you hear the latest?” he began again. “No. No. Not about the share offer. About Pommy Dude…no no, he’s not getting deported! He’s going out with Half Pint Hottie…well apparently he broke up with her a week ago…yes quick mover…I know…I know…Glad I found out early, I was going to ask her how the wedding plans were coming along at the next meeting...Mate, that would’ve been a total cock up, eh?”

He worked the phone for the rest of the afternoon, and by five o’clock, the news had travelled through the entire central nervous system of Rather-Large-Bank.

I was late to work again today. But I had a very good excuse. I wanted to sleep in. I wanted to sleep in because I did not want to wake up from this awesome dream I was having.

In my dream, Pixie, Cartman (Pixie's man) and Gigglesworth were down in Melbourne visiting. Gigglesworth also brought with her the entire Argentine rugby team*. Jose, in particular, was very funny and charming.

To accomodate all of them in my busy social schedule, they came along with me to this hot club opening. Pommy Dude** and his brother*** invited us. As soon as Jose met Pommy Dude, the charming Argentinian full back said to him, "I hope you treat Pollita well, she's like a sister to me."

The club was really laid back. More like a upmarket pub than anything else. We drank Guiness with Pommy Dude and his brother (Mikey****) -- the man's choice of drink in real life. We all laughed to my jokes and accent imitations. And when we played Trivia at the club/pub, Pommy Dude and I were the only two who knew the answer to "What was England manager Glenn Hoddle's choice of team building prior to 1998 World Cup?" (Psychic reading, it's true.)

As a prize, we took home a leg of ham. Honey roasted. We were the King and Queen of Trivia. Oh, and that celebratory kiss...heavenly!

"Muffins," he said, "you had me at that flying goal you scored over me two months ago!"

"I think Pommy Dude and Polly will become lovers." I overheard Cartman say to Pixie. Gigglesworth, meanwhile, was busy snogging Carlos, the Argentine rugby team captain.

The next day we all caught a plane to Sydney. The rugby team -- surprise, surprise -- got a bit unruly and subsequently got banned from all future Qantas flights. All except for Carlos. He and Gigglesworth were still lip locked. I think Jose's jealousy was the reason for him to start a touch footy match at the back of plane, which led to the banning.

When we landed in Sydney, sniffer dogs went to Cartman's bag and found 4.1 kilograms of marijuana. For some reason, he's a Thai citizen and had to be deported.

The rest of us -- Pommy Dude and I, Mikey and his girl, Pixie, Gigglesworth, Carlos, Jose -- snuck off with the pot and drove to Canberra on a whim.


Notes:
* I do not know anyone on the Argentine rugby team. Figments of my imagination.
** I am currently infatuated with Pommy Dude.
*** I do not know if Pommy Dude has a brother.
**** Nor if the brother's name is Mikey.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about this little thing called yellow fever. It might be referred to as “Asian lover” in other geographical locations, but my friends (yellow and otherwise) and I use the term in fun and jest. It’s a derogatory term everyone who’s been to UNSW would be familiar with.

I don’t know who it was that coined the term “yellow fever” or when we started using it at uni, but we all left the place with an awareness of its magnitude in influence. Practically every male Caucasian Bachelor of Commerce at my university suffered from it. Most aren’t cured of it yet; thus demonstrating the sheer force of the epidemic.

Yellow fever n. A condition inflicting mainly Caucasian males, with common symptoms including a pathological obsession with Oriental females and consistent admiration for t-shirts and/or bed spreads sprayed with Oriental flavouring.

But a recent drama with a yellow fever sufferer got me thinking about the condition with a little more maturity and clarity.

“Now, how would you say making out in Mandarin?” he would ask.

“Fucked if I know,” I would reply. I really didn’t know.

“What’s your Chinese name? I’m going to store it on my phone.” He said one night when we were together in a restaurant.

“It’s too fucking long.”

While walking along the Yarra River at three o’clock one morning, he asked, “Am I the first guelow you’ve been with?”

“What?” I was puzzled.

“GUELOW. You know, like white man,” he said.

“Oh. You mean gui-lao. That term actually covers all non-Asian people. So, technically no,” I explained.

At times even his compliments irritated me. I could have managed to stomach “you’re so cute” if he didn’t add that my hair was “all gorgeous and sleek and long like all Asian girls”.

Damn it. My hair is not sleek. Gorgeous, yes. Long, yes. But sleek, no! It frizzes after a long day.

I didn’t make much of an effort in that very short relationship (if one can even call it that). To be fair, he was nice; he laughed at all my witty banter and made me feel like I deserve a Perrier award (the Oscar equivalent for stand-up comedians). And we didn't work out for more reasons than just his yellow feverish ways. But there were many instances where I wished he could see that there was more to me than just being Chinese.

I don’t deny my heritage. Being Chinese is a part of me, but it represents just a fraction of who I am as a person.

I think it is a very superficial kind of attraction, this crazy little thing called yellow fever. It makes me feel like we’re the flavour of the month, much like Latin music circa 1998.

Oh, dearest loveliest laptop, how I missed your fully-functioning ways!

I have been incredibly slack in writing. So much for the New Year's resolution of writing at least 5000 words per week. I think I'm averaging less than 100 words per month, and most of which are crap. Unless one counts the vast amounts of email I'm sending to Pixie and Gigglesworth everyday from work. They are gold. And get me through the seemingly endless days of staring at the computer screen.

But all dramas (laptop and otherwise) are behind me. Tonight, I feel an incredibly sense of serenity; a wonderful zen-like state. The flood gates are now opened, updates on Polly's high-life in Melbourne will appear shortly. Maybe even as soon as tomorrow. I promise.

At yet another grad drinks recently, I was introduced to the Divorcee, a major flirt and quasi-attractive.

A few days later, the Divorcee phoned me at work. But having been accustomed only to hearing the Heartbreaker on the other end of the work phone, I mistook the Divorcee for the zero flirt and ultra attractive Heartbreaker.

“Heartbreaker? What’s up? You coming for Gold Button’s birthday tonight?” I asked.

Silence.

“Hello?” I whispered loudly.

“Is this Polly?” a deep voice asked.

“Yes.” I asked, “You’re not Heartbreaker?”

“Who do you think it is?” the deep voice quizzed.

“Oh shit. Divorcee? Is that you?” It had suddenly occurred to me that the Divorcee could have got my number on the internal work contacts.

“What do you think?”

“Divorcee? No, wait. Heartbreaker. No, Divorcee?” At this point, the rest of my team began to snigger at my side of the conversation.

“Baby, I’m hurt. You think I’m Heartbreaker?” The Divorcee feigned disappointment.

“Well, I only ever really get calls from him on this number,” I justified.

“I’m sure you have plenty of men calling you.”

“No, pretty much just him. You sound alike.”

“Does he have a deep sexy voice like this?”

This continued for a while until I realised that the conversation could potentially turn Easygoing Manager into Stick-Up-Bum Manager.

Trouble. I smelt trouble.

If history is anything to go by, the Divorcee is exactly the type of fire I play with and then get burnt by.

To be continued. Possibly.

Amongst the grads, I am fortunate have enough work to wade through the day. But there are many times when working really involves email conversations with friends.

The Heartbreaker works on the floor above me. He is not into emailing. He is a man of spoken word and prefers to call me on my extension.

BRRRING BRRRING…BRRRING BRRRING…goes the telephone everyday at eleven.

“Huuullo, Rather-Large-Bank, Polly speaking,” I answer in my best phone voice.

“Hey, it’s me. You busy?” the Heartbreaker asks.

“Yes, I am. I am very busy and very important.” I say in mock seriousness.

“Really? Doing what?” the Heartbreaker asks with a tinge of envy.

“Running SQL queries to extract data from GDW.” Acronyms make everything sound important. At this point, I see Manager who sits two desks away, give me a thumbs up sign.

“Right.”

“And I'm clustering PCA data with the latest data from CB and YB,” I smugly added.

“You wanna have lunch?” he asks, even though it’s only eleven.

“Absolutely,” I answer without hesitation.

There's a daddy-long-legs in the corner of my room. It has probably lived here longer than I have, so I always felt a little rude (and scared) to just whack it dead with a rolled up newspaper.

A few minutes ago, a beetle (I think) of those annoying flying kind managed to get in here and caused a buzzing ruckus. The beetle (I think) flew around and around, bumping into walls and doors like a girl who's had a few too many on a Friday night. I was not impressed with the beetle's (I think) lack of self-discipline.

The beetle (maybe I should just name it Betty) stumbled into daddy-long-leg's corner. Perhaps hoping for a free drink, or perhaps hoping to score daddy-long-leg's phone number, Betty stayed a little longer than usual. Daddy-long-legs, vindicative and ironic like any other man, decided to make Betty's stay slightly more permanent.

Betty and daddy-long-legs are now one. Daddy-long-legs wound himself around Betty, most likely never letting her go, feeding himself on her vivacious soul.

They lived happily ever after, sharing my corner of the room, until tomorrow when I will run down to Coles first thing in the morning to get a can of bug spray.

“How’s the house?” Farm Boy enquires everyday over lunch or email.

“Meh,” I would begin unenthusiastically. We both know that the share house is a point of great angst for me. But once the topic is out in the open, I would continue the story of my rundown Brunswick granny flat with much animation.

“I started to cook pasta last night. In heels, because I was too lazy to change out of them and I like feeling tall.” I said over lunch today with my fellow grads. “But I knocked my head on the rangehood and slabs of built up grease fell into the pasta.”

“Eww,” cried the girls.

“Cool,” said the Farm Boy. “Makes great condiments.”

“No sauce-in-a-bottle for you. It’s all ready made on the rangehood,” said the Heartbreaker.

I am beginning to suspect that I was not of sound mind when I agreed to take up on Aunt T’s offer to live here.

The share house is situated at the back of a laneway on Brunswick Road. It isn’t too far from the Melbourne CBD – a twenty-minute tram ride, or three minutes by car. This is the only pro I can think of.

Three weeks ago, when I first moved in, the sight of kitchen and bathrooms brought tears to my eyes. The bathroom floor was probably tiled, but it is now carpeted in loose strands of hair (some very short and curly, eww). The kitchen can only be described in one word: sticky. Years of grease has been built up and it is now as oily as a car repair garage.

The state of my room was almost enough to send me back home to Sydney. The room came furnished with the bare essentials -- a single bed, a desk and a built-in wardrobe. My only thought when I first burst in here was: I am never going to get laid here.

The wardrobe door was falling off the hinges and I spent a week with my suits on the floor (which of course was covered in hair before I vacuumed it) until Aunt T sent someone to fix it. It’s still not fixed, the wardrobe is without doors, but at least my suits are now off the floor.

It has been a little more than a nightmare. Sometimes I feel like a spoilt little princess whenever I start the whining. But I’ve lived in horrible places before – the dorms at UBC were not so flash – this just tops it all. I shower, go to the loo, brush my teeth and sometimes cook with my eyes closed.

It is time to look for a place where this swell mademoiselle can shower with her eyes open.

Miss Gigglesworth is slightly miffed that she has not been featured in this blog at a high frequency. She requests a special post just for her.

So I will write about something that happened to us last year on the night of the FA Cup semi-final.

That Saturday night, we were invited to a friend's house-warming, under the impression that it would be a house full of Swedish men baring their rock hard abs. We rocked up with the rudimentary six-pack, but there was not one fit Scandanavian bloke in sight.

Disappointed and eager to find out the soccer results, we left shortly after talking to some guy who claimed to have been Ewan McGregor's stand-in in one of the Star Wars movies.

We went to this small pizza place in nearby Surry Hills that had a TV set tune to SBS. Arsenal wasn't so doing so hot that night and lost to Manchester United. Gigglesworth and I were hotter in comparison.

A Ukrainian came by and sat at our table. He looked to be in his late 20s. Neither of us cared as Arsenal was losing. He had a really thick accent which was too much effort when one was already distracted.

"Vat's you name?" he asked us.

"Polly." I obviously was not going to go by my real name. Gigglesworth did the same.

"You student around here?"

"Yep."

"Vat you study?"

"Arts," we lied in unison.

"You have pen and paper? Draw me someting," the Ukrainian requested.

"No. Not that kind of Arts." I didn't even know what kind of Arts. I hoped that he wouldn't ask.

When our pizza had arrived, he watched us while we ate.

"I'm a painter," he said out of the blue.

"You mean like Michelangelo?" Gigglesworth asked.

"No. Like walls and ceilings," he said as he knocked on the orange painted walls of the pizza place to get his point across.

"Polly, you from Chinese?" he asked me.

"Yeh, I'm Chinese."

"Ooh. I like Chinese women. You people lovely. Ni hao ma ri nei mei ...?" I did not know what he was trying to say, figured he might've been trying to speak Chinese. It was hard enough to understand him in his slurred English.

He continued the staring for a while. I remember thinking, man, he's got really nice eyes, if only the parts that are supposed to be white weren''t red.

And then, "I live close here. Very close. You vant see?"

And then we ran. Not with the Ukrainian. But back to my car.

Work is a many strange splendoured thing. My brain has spent the last week and a half bombarded with information and I keep a pleasant demeanour whenever I am at the Rather Large Bank’s headquarters. I feel very uncomfortable at my own pleasantness; the usual horrid sarcasms are eager to be let off the leash.

There are four grads in Risk, all of us are from interstate. Farm Boy is from the wheat and sheep belt of Western Australia. Gold Buttons is from the wine country of New South Wales. They’re probably both delightful young men, but I’m not too sure if they get me when I let the horrid sarcasm out at lunch breaks.

Of course, there is also the very fine looking young man from Brisbane. He is devastatingly handsome, outrageously tall and very well built like all heartbreakers. I think I am very likely to fall for the Heartbreaker and get my heart broken. I have a fondness for heartbreakers.

Every time I see the Heartbreaker at a distance, I quietly sing to myself the Streets song You’re Fit But You Know It before he is close enough to hear it:

I am not trying to pull you,
Even though I would like to.
I think you are really fit,
You’re fit, but my gosh,
Don’t you know just know it.

Of course, the Heartbreaker has a girlfriend. But nevertheless, he is one hell of a funny guy to talk to. We are very similar. Even down to the “fit but know it” mentality. We both strut around with a “hey baby, how you doin’?” smirk.

At lunch today, we were gossiping about people in senior management.

“Have you noticed that Certain Head of Department (CHD) has a wonky eye?” asked the Heartbreaker.

“Yes!! Yes!” I replied ecstatically. It was something I had wanted to say for about a week.

“Sometimes, I just don’t know if he’s asking me a question or the guy next to me.” I confided to the Heartbreaker.

“I think the trick is to focus on just one eye,” explained the Heartbreaker.

“Yes, but the challenge is to figure out which one is the good eye to focus on.” I said.

Lately, I think I've become a guru of some sort in strategies for dating wars. I may be far away from those in need of such advise, but the war is commanded successfully by my far-reaching influence.

I should also mention that Optus has been instrumental in terms of telecommunications support. Their efforts, though very expensive, have been valuable.

Now, let me share some of my wisdom that I have passed on in the last few weeks.

When in doubt, remind oneself of how a joint advertising venture with Britney Spears fragrance and Nike would turn out.

Curious...? Just do it (tick).

Believe me, such wisdom has done wonders.

Wednesday, 2 February 2005

My mum left for Sydney today. The reality of living here by myself has slowly started to sink in. I am still here at Aunt T’s house, quietly amused by Manchild’s strange behaviour.

The following is a small collection I have noted in the past few days.

The boy -- I cannot call him a man, I think you will soon see why -- is either deaf or exhibits selective hearing.

“Did you sleep well last night?” asked Mum courteously one morning. He had complained about feeling nauseous the night before.

“What? You’re leaving today?”

“No. Sleep. Last night. Did you sleep well?” Mum tried again.

“I stayed at Five Dock the last time I was in Sydney,” Manchild replied.

Mum gave up soon after.

The boy cannot do anything on his own. Worse, he is a two-year-old in a 28-year-old’s body. Every morning his father, Uncle L, trudges up to his room to get him up.

“儿 子啊！(Son!) Time to get up! Your breakfast is getting cold,” Uncle L would call through the door of the main bedroom that Manchild has taken over from his parents.

When Manchild finally makes it to the kitchen, Uncle L reheats everything and places them directly in front of his son. Vitamins and other supplements are carefully laid out for him in a pill box next to a cup of water. He never cleans up after himself when he’s done eating. Empty bowls and plates with scrap pieces of food are left strewn on the table for somebody else to look after.

It’s usually better when he doesn’t talk during meals. Last night, we went out for dinner. Midway through the ginger and shallot mud crabs, he stood up from the table.

“I’m going to go take a dump.”

“Don’t say that,” Aunt T softly warned. Mum and I exchanged bemused looks.

“What? Nothing wrong with taking a dump.”

He is very lacking in common manners.

After mother left today, I decided that I would try my hand at cooking dinner -- kind of a test for survival before the real thing next week. I was quite competent and managed to whip up three easy dishes in less than one hour.

Manchild came home just after I finished. While Aunt T and Uncle L busily went about setting up the table, their prodigal son sat down and started eating away at the prawn omelette. By the time we all sat down, the omelette was pretty much all gone. But Manchild carried on eating without a care in the world.

“Gimme more potatoes,” demanded Manchild for the mashed potatoes to be passed down.

I grudgingly did, knowing that it would come back empty.

“Say thank you,” Uncle L reminded him.

“Thanks.” He said gruffly.


A few days ago when mum and I were waiting for the bus, we had a little discussion about Manchild.

“Tell the truth. You’re beaming with pride that your daughter is pretty much perfect in comparison to him, aren’t you?” I asked.

“I suppose you’re not too bad.”

“No. I want to hear the words,” I persisted. “Come on, say it with me: I am beaming with pride.”

“I am not beaming. Remember the time you quit piano lessons?”

“Come on, that’s nothing compared to ‘taking a dump’ during dinner.”

“You’re not perfect,” said Mum.

“I am an angel in comparison. Just say it: I am beaming with pride.”

“I am beaming with pride that my daughter, perfect in most ways, just made us miss the bus,” she said, pointing to the bus that just pulled away from the curb.

“There’ll be another one in ten minutes. Gives us more time to say it again. Now repeat after me: I am beaming with pride that my daughter is perfection.”

Friday, 28 January 2005

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young sassy Shanghainese mademoiselle with a sensible job and of suitable child-bearing age must be in need of a male equivalent.

This universal truth has brought me to my new home in Melbourne, though perhaps I should elaborate further lest you think I’ve somehow been sold as a child bride.

Two days before I left, I was still without a place to live in Melbourne. I was convinced that I would end up sleeping on the street for the first week. Then, on the day before my scheduled departure, I got news that my grandfather’s old colleague has a spare room in a flat that she leases out. It was arranged that I would stay at Granddad’s connection, Aunt T’s house, until the room is vacated by the previous tenant the following week.

Aunt T met my mother and I at the airport. She even took to the trouble of making two trips because we arrived on different flights. I was a picture of perfect Chinese upbringing, addressing her as Aunt and her husband as Uncle upon first meeting. I am sincerely grateful to them for letting me stay, so much so that I address her son as gege (older brother).

“There’s no need for that kind of formalities,” said Aunt T.

“Really no need,” said Uncle L.

“We don’t have any other kids,” continued Aunt T. “When you start work next week, feel free stay over here on weekends.”

“Yes, I’ll make nice healthy Chinese broth,” said Uncle L.

“She’ll be like a part of our family,” Aunt T assured my mother.

“Broth with abalone and corn fed chicken. Very good for nourishment,” continued Uncle L.

Gege is a man in his late-twenties. He is generously proportioned and lives at home with his parents. At dinners, he slurps his way through the soup and literally throws his food down his throat. Sometimes, he leaves the dinner table half-way through, but not before announcing: “I’ve got to go poo!”

Did I mention that he is in his late twenties?!

One morning when he was running late for work, he gulped down his breakfast while Aunt T fed him his vitamins in between bites.

Have I reminded you that he is in his late twenties?!

(Pixie, are you getting a kick out of this yet? Obviously couldn’t tell you this over the phone while still under their roof.)

One night I joined Aunt T, Mum and gege for a game of mahjong. I was confused for most of the game, but very much entertained by the prodigal son who decided to sing Communist revolution songs of yesteryears. They went something like this:

The Party teaches us great things.
From humble peasants we become hopeful children,
Children of the Party with bright red futures.
The blood of the revolutionists make us strong,
Our voices sing their songs.
We sing with strong hearts,
We sing a mountain song for the Party.

I am not making this shit up. He was singing non-stop for an hour or so before he left us to “pee”.

“He seems to like singing.” Mum said, ever so diplomatically.

“He’s not like this usually when we have company. I think he’s so comfortable with you here that he sees you as family.” Aunt T told Mum.

“Yes. Family. You're like family to us.” Uncle L reiterated. “I'll make broth this weekend.”

I am fucked, I thought.

I'm alive! And well!! Despite living in the yuckiest sharehouse in the history of sharehouse living.

Have much to tell. Much. Too much. But I'll have to update another time. Going out to have dinner (and possibly movie too) with a friend of Hermione. Hmm, maybe he could be given the alias of Harry Potter.

Feel like ditching dinner and just sit here and reveal all about my adventures here. But obviously can't. Both Pixie and Hermione are eagerly awaiting news of meeting with Harry Potter.

I've said goodbye to many people over the past several days; some I'm sure I won't see for a long time, some I know I will not ever see again in my life, and some who I will miss dearly but take in the comfort that we didn't really utter goodbyes.

Careful, this may get so corny that it's indigestible without a hearty dollop of butter.

Tonight, I had dinner with Pixie and Anonymous, my two bestest friends in the whole wide world (says the thirteen-year-old inside me). I know that Melbourne is only an hour's flight away, but I shudder at the thought that soon I will not be able to see them at a moment's notice.

I'm asked often why I want to move to a strange city away from my friends. Sometimes I'm at a loss for an answer.

I am still happy at the thought of the freedom and the anonymity. But the lingering thoughts for those I'm leaving behind tugs at my heartstring.

When the doubts start to accumulate, I try to remind myself of that Robert Frost poem:

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood..."

It's calming effects have slowly eroded as the goodbyes escalate.

Goodbyes are horrible. They seem so definite and terminating. When Pixie and I parted earlier this evening, we made a point not to hug each other goodbye nor utter the word.

The heavily pouring rain fit the scene as I drove home.

Have wundervull friends.

Love my wundervull friends who are generous, kind and trek from far away places to say adieu before I leave.

I leave next week.

I will miss my dear wundervull friends. Ja, I will miss their wundervull ways; who's going to start speaking in woeful German and Russian with me when drunk??

Methinks I will treasure moments. Wundervull moments like that of coercing Gigglesworth to steal glassware from the CBD Hotel and becoming fugitive on run from Clarence Street to Kent Street.

Methinks also that I will treasure cheap momentos. Silly momentos like Gigglesworth's glass and the one-dollar pendant from the Delightful Young Man.

Wundervull! Чудесно! Danke sie. Good night. Or morning, rather.

There is a clear difference between paternal and maternal love. A fine example of which can be found in my family.

Amidst the intense heat of summer, we are all in an uproar in preparation for my departure to Melbourne. As an only child, this uproar is by no means any kind of exaggeration.

For two days straight, my mother took me shopping for new work clothes. I bought up big on crisp business shirts and conservative tops to go with the two sets of suits I already own. Momma, however, found my taste dull. She insisted on picking up sparkly low-cut tops.

"Darling, you're being boring," said Momma, holding up a sequined-neck backless number. "Your clothes should have personality!! This shirt screams attention! You'll stand out from the crowd!"

"I'll definitely stand out from the crowd after they fire me for indecent exposure."

"You should not waste your youth. If I was your age, I would only ever wear revealing clothes. Show your skin while you still can."

I stood my ground and vetoed the idea of showing up for my first proper yuppie job dressed like a skank trying to land a banker at bar on a typical Friday night. As Pixie once rightly said, "we do not get to be investment bankers by wearing fuck-me boots."

While Momma tried to diversify my wardrobe, Poppa went shopping for me as well. He stopped at his favourite Hardware House and forked out some serious cash on pliers, hammers, nails and screw drivers.

"Essential items. I wrote down a list of them. I'll get you some ropes and a small jigsaw tomorrow," promised Poppa.

He fears that his beloved only child may get trapped in the wilderness with lions, tigers and bears when in Melbourne. My super-boyscout-Poppa is prepared for anything.

My friend, Gigglesworth, sent an email in which she wrote the following regarding the upcoming big move south:

I think ------ is an arse. Not worth losing sleep over. You've got that wonderful adventure ahead of you in Melbourne.
And don't forget the AFL hotties!!!!!!!!!!!! Too hot!!!

But as the date draws nearer, I am dreading it more. I even think that the aforementioned hot football players are not as enticing as the familiar friends in Sydney. A well toned six-pack has nothing over Pixie's sardonic conversations. Nor does it beat the Mallavian Whiz's unbelievably strange and yet obliging ways.

I fear that this blog will become less funny in the months to come. It will probably be splattered with complaints of loneliness as I struggle to find my footing. Hopefully, funny anecdotes will still find its way here.

This has to be my most un-funny post. Perhaps, I will sign off with something humourous for old times sake.

Think. Think of something funny. The audience awaits.

Oh, yes. At the wedding of High School Rival and Chubby Solicitor last Sunday -- for which I looked so devastatingly luscious that I kind of felt bad for the bride -- we were given soap bubbles to blow instead of throwing confetti after the ceremony. The child in me was very excited; colourful bubbles in the sunlight! I haven't had such a delight since childhood!

The bridal party was late due to the bride's father sudden loss of directions. Suspicious, considering he's taxi driver. But I was happy at the opportunity to play with the soap bubbles that came in a miniature keepsake bottle.

Pop! went the dove shaped lid. Shit! said Polly as bottle slipped out of her hand and all the soapy liquid spilt down the front of her outrageously beautiful pink silk ruffled dress.

As High School Rival and Chubby Solicitor promised to grow old together, I sheepishly tried to pretend that I was not a two-year-old who had just peed down the front of my dress.

Friday night, a box of Belgian chocolates sat opened on my lap. Exotic variety with flavours such as Raspberry Framboise, Hazelnut Orange Praliné, Gianduja, Walnut Noix, and Amaretto…one of the best presents my favourite uncle has ever sent from London. He always sends excellent birthday and Christmas goodies. For my birthday last year, he sent me a series of pictures he took at Abbey Road.

Chocolates pieces quickly started to vanishes. I stared at the nearly empty tray in the box with sadness. I lifted the box away from my lap to stop myself before they all disappear.

Ooh. Box still weighty.

Maybe box is just heavy.

But what if this is like that episode of ‘That 70s Show’, and like Fez, I discover a whole new layer of chocolates underneath the empty top tray?

In manner of Howard Carter discovering Tutankhamun’s tomb, I slowly took out the top tray. The great chocolatical find of this century was unearthed; grand jewels like Soft Caramel Mou, Pistachio, Marron Glace, and Cointreau laid out in magnificence on a whole new layer.

Hermione first graced this humble blog as Rom-Com. She did not take to the name and is now reborn as Hermione Granger, the brightest girl at Hogwarts (our version is shot on location at the University of British Columbia, Vancouver, with various other exterior filming done in Melbourne).

Hermione, Pooh, Pixie and I reunited this New Year’s for another round of immature giggles. It was just like the old days when we drove around Vancouver Island in a rental car from Rent-a-Wreck.

Despite the tight schedule given at the Incredibly Impressive Bank, Hermione took time out this holiday season to see in the New Year with us - a whirlwind visit courtesy of Virgin Blue’s flying broomsticks. Our mode of celebration this year was tame; no watching of fireworks in a penthouse apartment like in 2002, and no subsequent visit to hospital like in 2002 either. We simply lounged in front of Pixie’s plasma TV watching Sex and the City DVDs whilst consuming champagne with strawberries.

We toasted to our own brilliance when the clock struck midnight and quickly turned our attention back to the DVDs.

“Hey! We forgot to make resolutions!” I said, half-an-hour later.

“Put on weight and get a bigger boob!” Pixie hollered as Sarah Jessica Parker’s impossibly large bosoms bounced about on her impossibly tiny body.

“Mwahahaha! ONE. BIGGER. BOOB.” I laughed.

“Pah! Don’t have money for two,” she replied.

“Asymmetry might make a come back in 2005,” Hermione said hopefully.

“One momma boob, and one baby boob…hahaha…”

This amused us so much that Pixie ended up the only one with a resolution for 2005.

The next day, the four of us picnicked at a local park. We lied on the blanket and slowly picked our way through an assortment of nibbles. Intoxicated by the Sex and the City marathon from the previous night and the bubbles in the champagne, I suddenly exclaimed, “aww, I love you guys!”

“Aww, I love you guys too,” said Hermione.

“I love you guys three,” said Pooh.

“Geez.” One can always trust Pixie to be stoic on such emotional occasions.

For dessert, we packed a platter of baklavas. Hermione studied them as she cut each into quarters.

“There is a generous amount of nuts on these,” she said. “Are these chopped up white ones peanuts?”

“Almonds,” Pixie answered. She frequents the Lebanese pastry shop more than any of us.

“Gosh, there must be a lot of nut banging going on at Abla’s.” Hermione innocently said of the pastry shop.

“Nut banging! You just said nut banging!” The giggles were contagious.

“Nut Banger. That can be your new name on her blog,” said Pixie.

“That’s just as bad as Rom-Com,” said Hermione.

“Hehe, Nut Banger’s good,” said Pooh.

“You have to give me a new name on your blog,” said Hermione to me.

“All right. How about Hermione Granger?” said I.

“You’re exactly like her,” said Pixie. Pooh agreed.

“Well, Hermione’s better than Nut Banger,” said Hermione.

“Besides, we’re all nut bangers in one way or another.” said I.

“True, true.” The nut bangers all agreed.