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.