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.