‘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?”