Saturday night. Scene: shite cocktails at the local RSL that has recently decided to vamp it up to entice the young crowd. Cast: four ladies who survived high school together.

Ms. Brains: Smart, articulate, and the first one of us to get married. Other memorable traits include the infamous incident on the first day of high school when she stood up in front of the whole maths class to tell the rest of us buffoons to shut up and "show some respect".

Ms. Simpatico: Lovely, quiet, and rational. She is the best of us - the first person I think of when I feel a rage attack to calm me down.

Ms. Boobs: Hot, cleavage, and it wasn't a surprise when she became the first one of us to get a boyfriend.

And me.

There was always this quiet rivalry between Ms. Boobs and I, as was usually the case between girls who were best friends. The only thing was, she always seemed to beat me in the things that mattered - boys, boys and boys. And it irked me.

The first boy I ever liked, for example. Ms. Brains cornered him in Grade 8 one day.

"You know, Polly likes you, " she said with the subtlety that could only be found in an eighth grader.

"Yeh. But I like Ms. Boobs."

Friggin moron. Although some satisfaction came in Grade 11 when the friggin moron asked me to be his girlfriend. Pretend girlfriend, so that he could throw off the scent on this girl who was stalking him. High school was tough.

So. Saturday night. Ten years later. Cheap cocktails. Four young ladies who survived high school together.

"How's the new guy?" I asked Ms. Boobs.

"I don't know. I think we're not going to last. I plan on breaking it off next week," Ms. Boobs replied. I shook my head; it was like back in high school again, I thought. Ms. Boobs - too many boys chasing after her, and her not realising how good she has with her ridiculously small and unfair waist to boobs ratio.

"So what happened with the old one?" Ms. Brains asked.

"It just didn't work. He wouldn't touch me."

"What? You were doing it right?" I was amazed.

"I could lie there naked next to him and he wouldn't touch me," said Ms. Boobs.

"What?" We exclaimed in disbelief. I mean, she has a ridiculously small and unfair waist to boobs ratio.

"Yeah. He was great at everything. But in the four years we went out, I can count the number of times we did it and the number of times he stuck his tongue down my throat." Ms Boobs recalled, "Ten and ten."

"Are you serious?" we asked.

"Yeah." Ms. Boobs confirmed.

"Oh. That's just fucked. If I was that motherfucker, I'd totally tap that. I mean, you. Like, more than ten times in fucking four years. Bang!" I said, under the influence of alcohol and total disbelief at any hot blooded male's inability to tap that.

I also spent a whole day earlier fueled up on two whole seasons of "Entourage". I thought I was Ari Gold and maybe I could talk sense into the situation if this frigid boy of Ms. Boob's was in front of me.

When I got home tonight, with some quiet satisfaction, I realised that it isn't all about the waist to boob ratio. And I couldn't wait to tell the Boy about how good we have it, despite the tyranny of distance.

Not that it is something to be smug about.

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?”

In light of recent change in work environment, that is, the new reporting line in the form of my Shag-Fiend Director (formerly known as Band Geek Manager), I wonder how the following will go down at bars and pubs:

"Hi, I need to shag you now to further my career. We might not work in the same company, but I need to shag you. Now."

I think Shag-Fiend Director is trying to live the single life through me. I got the "have a nice weekend, Polly, I expect a full report on Monday" as left my desk yesterday. She really picked the wrong person to report. So far this weekend, I have not left my bed except to go to the loo. See, I am not a fox like her. Men tend to run away from me.

Italian Stallion, per example. We had met a few weeks ago, and had quite a long conversation (one which I secretly hoped would blossom into a meaningful relationship whereby we would be the king and queen of jaw-dropping attractiveness).

My friend, Miss Unsubtlety, unaware of my acquaintance with Italian Stallion, introduced us again at a work function last week.

"Polly, have you met Italian Stallion? He's single." She said with her left eyebrow raised in bemusement.

"Oh really?" I said, raising my right eyebrow in response to Italian Stallion's availability. Unfortunately, he was not available for very long -- he promptly left our circle of madness and excused himself from the function.

My eyes followed him as his long legs carried his fine broad shoulders out of the room. Haha! You can't run that far, Italian Stallion, I thought to myself, because I am moving up to your floor next week!

Obviously, I can handle rejection and lack of interest very well. But this really provides no source for a good shagging story as requested by Shag Fiend Director. Will just have to drag myself out of bed now and go for a run. Perhaps there will be some delicious jogger going around and around and around Princes Park.

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.

On Friday night, Pixie and I went to worship the venerable Mr Pitt and Mr Clooney at the temple of Ocean's 12. We saw it at the local multiplex in our not-very-safe western Sydney suburb. With cautious instincts ingrained in us since our teens, we walked briskly to the carpark after the movie.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a large group of boys. This wasn't a rare sight in our good ol' suburb on a Friday night. They're probably going to their cars to drag race each other through the carpark, I thought. But as we approached my car, we sensed their close presence.

"Oof, Ali, az eef yer can smash Harout. He bash the shit out of yer first!"

"Yer being a facking smart cunt?" Ali retorted.

With ten metres to go, we sprinted to my Corolla. I fumbled for the car keys and the contents of my bag spilled all over the ground. When we eventually made it inside, I locked the car door in one swift motion. By then, the juvenile delinquents were already standing in front of the car. One of them was already devoid of a shirt and paraded his adolescent pectoral muscles around.

"Oh, shit. I hope he doesn't fucking moon us," I said to Pixie.

As I backed out of the car space, we suddenly realised that though they were juvenile, they were not exactly delinquents. They were in fact on Mr Westfield's payroll as trolley boys. I had parked next to the trolley return bay and the previously topless boy was merely in the process of putting on his neon yellow reflector shirt.

"We're such dorks." Pixie said as I navigated the car around the wrongfully accused trolley boys.

Well put, Pixie.