FLB, the rotten egg smell that we just can't get rid of in my otherwise semi-harmonious team, has been with us for close to a year now. She is the bane of everyone's existence; the itch that we want to scratch till it bleeds, the psycho dog that we want to put down, the cancerous tumour on which we want to double the dosage of chemo...

I can keep the metaphor going all day. She is a bitch. A very lazy one. Hence the acronym she is now known as amongst the team. No prizes for guessing what the F stands for. Lets just say that the F helps with the venting of anger.

Her understanding of the word "assistant" in "personal assistant" is very limited. Not a day goes by without our requests being bounced back from her with a terse "can you sort this out for yourselves." We forward those emails around the team; we lament and console each other over our shared misfortune of having to work with her.

Very Tall New Guy: "I got locked out in the fire escape last night. She somehow got rid of the after hours access on my security pass. Instead of putting it back on today, she emailed me the security operations number and walked out of the door to go shopping."

Chubby Pom [screams over email]: "Fire escape? At least you managed to get out. I'm stuck 800km away because she fucked up my flight."

Very Tall New Guy [not ready to be outdone]: "No wait. I think I can top that. I just got 1000 business cards printed. Very nice of her to get that done. Very useful. If only she had put the address on.

As she annoys us all day with her lack of "assistance" as part of her role as a "personal assistant", sometimes, I like to hit the ball back into her court.

For example, right after Chinese New Year.

Me: "How was your Chinese New Year?"
FLB [rather chirpily for an FLB]: "Yeah, it was fantastic! I got a few of red packets."
Me: "You? Red packets? Aren't you a bit old at 37??!"
FLB [with less enthusiasm]: "Well, yes, maybe..."
Me: "I guess there's ALWAYS an upside to still being a spinster eh?"

Me 1 - FLB 0.

Miss Unsubtle quit with five weeks to go. A drawn out process following over a year of "It's my wedding! It's my life!"

I remain. Reluctantly.

December 2006. "I'm engaged! Look at the ring! Groom-to-be-of-Bridezilla got it from Charles Rose! Will you be my bridesmaid? My chief bridesmaid?" Screams and hugs followed.

February 2007. At a bridal expo, "This is my chief bridesmaid, Polly."

May 2007. Through tears in a busy cafe, "I'm trying to make everyone happy! I'm trying to please everyone! It's going to be a pink dress!"

July 2007. "Oh Polly! Thank you for finding my wedding dress with me!"

August 2007. "I don't care about the starving kids in Africa! The photographer is $6000 and he's GOOD!"

December 2007. To Miss Unsubtle, "Sometimes, I think Polly only wanted to be my bridesmaid because she's in competition with Tuck Shop Lady Arms (TSLA)."

January 2008. "If I was the bridesmaid, I would have all weekends in the two months leading up to the wedding free for the bride. Polly should have told me that she has a wedding to attend on the day I want to have my Hens."

February 2008. "Miss Unsubtle, I am not unreasonable, I am selfless. It's not like I have been a bridezilla. Just get along with my lovely friend who called you and Polly manipulative. It's my wedding. Just be happy for me. It should be about me."

February 2008. "I can't believe Miss Unsubtle just quit."

February 2008. "I never wanted Polly to be my chief bridesmaid. If I had a choice, it would have been Arse Crawler."

February 2008. "Polly, TSLA is going to be Miss Unsubtle's replacement. I always wanted her to be the bridesmaid but you were uncomfortable about it because she used to go out with The Boy. I'm just selfless like that."

March 2008. "Polly, I've paired Arse Crawler with the Best Man because she is the only one who is married. All my bridesmaids are the same to me. There's no chief bridesmaid. What? Oh that ceremony program just says Arse Crawler is the Matron of Honour, but all my bridesmaids are the same to me."

A rather good summary of events. So come Sunday next week, as the Wedding March plays and TSLA waddles down the aisle...

The Boy thinks to himself, "I tapped that."

And as I gracefully glide toward the alter...

The Boy thinks smugly to himself, "I'm tapping that."

It is like rain on your wedding day. A black fly in your chardonnay.

I have never been good at getting haircuts. One of my famous outbursts from childhood was at the hairdressers. I was probably five at the time and my mother always let me grow my hair long. But after way too much Tang one morning, I begged her to take me to the hairdressers to cut my hair short for the first time ever. As my locks were snipped off - and as the buzz from Tang wore off - I realised I looked like a boy. I jumped off the seat, grabbed the long locks of hair that were once on my head and mourned their loss in howls and sobs.

Twenty years on, nothing much has changed. Although I do exercise a fraction more decorum now.

Recently, le Garçon and I got our hair cut together. He was scooted off to a woman named Stella who had very bad teeth, in addition to some flirtatious apprentices who cooed over him. Meanwhile, I was sent to a skeletal Asian man with blonde spiky hair (aside: I do not trust Asians with peroxide hair).

"Aiya,your head...your head smell bad," he said as he combed my just-washed hair to figure out a suitable style.

"Oh." Really how does one respond to the claim that one's head smells bad? "It's just been washed by that girl over there," I nodded to the direction of the apprentice who was running her fingers through le Garçon's hair. "And I washed it earlier in the day too."

"No. Hair no smell. Head smell. Scalp smell." He was adamant.

He walked briskly away and came back with a tub of something. "Use this. You need this."

I balked at the 25-dollar price tag. And also smelled something rotten. On him.

"Oh, I have this at home." I lied.

"Then you use it. You should buy, you need a lot."

"I think I will just finish the one I have at home first," I said. Pfft, I ain't giving him an extra 25 bucks that day. I was adamant too.

"Whatever."

As he snipped away locks of my hair, he started sighing again.

"Wavy. Hair too wavy. Natural wave no good. You should get it properly permed. More structure." He started up again.

"I read in Vogue the other day that naturally wavy hair is all the rage at the moment. Straight hair, last season. Permed hair, five years ago." I argued.

"Your hair is a mess. No structure. You perm, still look natural."

"I just wanted it cut today. NO PERM."

He quietens down for a while, though still sighing as he snips.

"Wavy hair. Hard to cut. Next time don't come to me to cut."

"Bitch," I muttered under my breath. He still had the scissors to make a mess of my head.

I thought the blow drying part would be better with the noise to drown out his sighing. It was good for a while, until -

"PPEW! YOUR SCALP SMELL BAD! ALL THE BAD SMELL FLOW UP FROM THE BLOW DRY. PPEEW!" He screamed.

I stared back at him in horror. I have great hair. I am known for great wavy hair that does not smell. I wanted to grab that pair of scissors and snip him into shreds. Alas, I have more decorum now, I'm not five and I don't cry over spilt hair anymore. I walked away from that chair without another word with my fabulous good-smelling head held high.

"What happened? You looked like you were about to cry on that seat," le Garçon asked as we were walking out.

"He hurt my hair's feelings."

‘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?’