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.