Sometimes, circumstances are just funnier in hindsight.

Having not written anything besides credit memorandums, presentation slides and other work related materials in almost three months, I was rather excited with my scribblings last week.

‘What did you think?’ I asked Pixie. ‘Did you like it?’

‘Yes, but it was very sad. I had no idea things went that bad with Captain Haddock,’ Pixied sympathized.

‘Well…’ I said, not really wanting to dwell on it.

‘It’s like things can go wrong without you realizing, and you keep on clinging onto the good parts that made you happy even though they don’t last very long,’ she wisely reflected.

‘Yes, well, like Mr Miyagi has proven, sometimes shit happens,’ I concluded.

Mr. Miyagi

Roomie #1 took home a stray cat from the veterinary clinic last week. A skinny grey thing who we’ve taken to call Mr. Miyagi. I liked him immediately, despite my fears of being bitten and clawed.

I have never had a pet in my life. The closest thing that came to a four-legged creature within the vicinity of our house was a stray cat Mum and I used to feed. But it was hardly ours; it was fed by practically every other house in the neighbourhood.

We cooed and fretted over Mr. Miyagi. Despite being officially Roomie #1’s pet, Roomie #2 and I showered him with love and material goods – a scratching post and loads of toys.

“He is the cutest thing ever!” I told Mum over the phone.

“Mr. Miyagi is very smart too. He knows which cupboard holds his food.” I told Pixie over the phone.

“Why would you get a cat? Cats never love you back,” Pixie asked. “It’s all taking with them.”

“Cats are gross. They lick themselves all the time.” Miss Unsubtle was on the same page as Pixie.

But Mr. Miyagi had my heart; though my fear of being scratched still kept me from picking him up to properly cuddle him. As days passed, I watched him grow closer to Roomie #2 as he purred in her arms.

My fondness for Mr. Miyagi froze on the fourth night. While both Roomies were at work, I found myself alone facing Mr. Miyagi and his poo underneath the Christmas tree.

There is something about cleaning someone’s poo off the carpet that makes them seem less perfect.

After the poo-on-carpet incident, I took to a sterner tone when dealing with Mr. Miyagi. I ignored his presence in the house.

Mr. Miyagi ran away two nights ago. Roomie #1 was devastated. I was, in contrast, secretly happy. I hoped he would stay away forever, though I insincerely consoled Roomie #1 with a lot of “maybe he’ll find his way home”s.

Roomie #1’s tears were stopped midstream last night when the front door buzzed, announcing the return of Mr. Miyagi.

Roomies were both ecstatic at Mr. Miyagi’s triumphant and safe return. More love and food were thrown at him than ever before.

“We’re never letting you out again, Mr. Miyagi!!”

“We’re going to overfeed you so that you’ll be too fat to run away!”

Though I was happy that he was back, my enthusiasm was at a level somewhat below those of Roomies’ – I still remembered vividly the smell and texture of Mr. Miyagi’s number 2’s in a thin plastic bag against my hand.

Can Mr. Miyagi and I go back to the way we were? Can I even take a step further and start cuddling him?

At least I fed him tonight without saying in a reproachful tone, “now, Mr. Miyagi, you poo this in the kitty litter, okay?”


Captain Haddock

I first met Captain Haddock earlier this year. His beard reminded me of the Herge comic book character from Tintin. I was immediately attracted to his honesty and sense of humour. I don’t remember ever laughing that much while on a date. I liked him, despite my fears of being scratched by his beard.

It is a point of worthy debate that I have ever had a proper boyfriend. The closest person to have come to that role was another bearded fellow who had several other girlfriends.

I gave Captain Haddock rave reviews. I was equally well received one night when I met his friends. While Polly of the old would have been guarded with her feelings, Polly of the new was recklessly forward following what she deemed the best first date ever.

“I had a fantastic time. I would love to see you again very soon,” was communicated to Captain Haddock when I would have usually waited for the Captains to drop by when they are next at my port.

It was a fantastic second date too.

“Captain Haddock is hilarious! And smart!” I told Pixie and Miss Unsubtle, sheepishly admitting that I fancy Captain Haddock.

But I still had my fears. I still held a deep irrational fear of being scratched by his beard (feel free to interpret this metaphorically). Our good night kisses were awkward. The first time we tried it, he accidentally let go of his break and rolled the car down the hill outside my house. The second time we tried to accomplish the task, I pulled away too soon.

At the end of our third date, by which point we were both slightly drunk, I felt the prickly bits of whiskers rub slowly up my neck, around my cheek and towards my lips. I pulled away again.

How I curse that moment now!

The fourth date was disaster.

“You know when I walked out of the bookshop for a while just then?” he asked. We had been shopping on Brunswick St.

“Yeah…”

“I had to step outside because I farted next to the erotic origami books. Smelled bad.”

Oh lord, I thought. Have we fallen into such a level of comfort that flatulence is a topic of regular discussion? Or did he mistakenly think I pulled away from snogging him because I wanted to be just friends?

Captain Haddock’s flatulence and (now) brutal honesty cast a dark cloud over my perception of him. I still cringe when I think about events of the fourth date.

“How’s Captain Haddock?” many would still ask even though it has been weeks since I last saw him. He has, in effect, run away too.

The parallel between Captain Haddock and Mr. Miyagi occurred to me today. I secretly hope that he will return too. I may even overlook his troubles with gaseous discharge.

* Names have been changed to protect the privacy of both Captain Haddock and Mr. Miyagi

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.

“Polly, did you hear the latest gossip?” asked Easygoing Manager excitedly as I walked back to my desk after lunch.

Easygoing Manager is in his thirties. He looks the part of the most accomplished Rugby Union fullback, battle scars and all. But when it comes to office gossip, it is a sin to be left out of the loop, even if one is purposely built for a rugby scrum.

I, too, was all ears.

“Pommy Dude is going out with Half Pint Hottie! They just started going out this week!” he said with a distinguished enthusiasm that would make Mary Hart of Entertainment Tonight proud.

Oh, my poor poor heart! Pommy Dude! And Half Pint Hottie!

I kept my composure and listened to the romantic entanglements of the office’s very own Posh and Becks.

“You haven’t heard? Pull up a chair, Polly,” Easygoing Manager started. “I had a feeling that Half Pint Hottie was keen on Pommy Dude. Remember the time we played soccer with them? She was in a mini skirt doing scissor kicks whenever he got the ball. You just have a gut feeling when something like that happens.”

This little cheerleading act obviously escaped my attention. All I remember from that day was the flying goal I scored past Pommy Dude’s (incompetent) hands.

“Anyway, that’s not the whole story,” Easygoing Manager continued. “You see, they were both with other partners not long ago. Half Pint Hottie was even engaged to be married! I’ve got to call Two-Packs-A-Day to tell him. Wonder if he knows. He sits next to Pommy Dude.”

“Two-Packs! Did you hear the latest?” he began again. “No. No. Not about the share offer. About Pommy Dude…no no, he’s not getting deported! He’s going out with Half Pint Hottie…well apparently he broke up with her a week ago…yes quick mover…I know…I know…Glad I found out early, I was going to ask her how the wedding plans were coming along at the next meeting...Mate, that would’ve been a total cock up, eh?”

He worked the phone for the rest of the afternoon, and by five o’clock, the news had travelled through the entire central nervous system of Rather-Large-Bank.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about this little thing called yellow fever. It might be referred to as “Asian lover” in other geographical locations, but my friends (yellow and otherwise) and I use the term in fun and jest. It’s a derogatory term everyone who’s been to UNSW would be familiar with.

I don’t know who it was that coined the term “yellow fever” or when we started using it at uni, but we all left the place with an awareness of its magnitude in influence. Practically every male Caucasian Bachelor of Commerce at my university suffered from it. Most aren’t cured of it yet; thus demonstrating the sheer force of the epidemic.

Yellow fever n. A condition inflicting mainly Caucasian males, with common symptoms including a pathological obsession with Oriental females and consistent admiration for t-shirts and/or bed spreads sprayed with Oriental flavouring.

But a recent drama with a yellow fever sufferer got me thinking about the condition with a little more maturity and clarity.

“Now, how would you say making out in Mandarin?” he would ask.

“Fucked if I know,” I would reply. I really didn’t know.

“What’s your Chinese name? I’m going to store it on my phone.” He said one night when we were together in a restaurant.

“It’s too fucking long.”

While walking along the Yarra River at three o’clock one morning, he asked, “Am I the first guelow you’ve been with?”

“What?” I was puzzled.

“GUELOW. You know, like white man,” he said.

“Oh. You mean gui-lao. That term actually covers all non-Asian people. So, technically no,” I explained.

At times even his compliments irritated me. I could have managed to stomach “you’re so cute” if he didn’t add that my hair was “all gorgeous and sleek and long like all Asian girls”.

Damn it. My hair is not sleek. Gorgeous, yes. Long, yes. But sleek, no! It frizzes after a long day.

I didn’t make much of an effort in that very short relationship (if one can even call it that). To be fair, he was nice; he laughed at all my witty banter and made me feel like I deserve a Perrier award (the Oscar equivalent for stand-up comedians). And we didn't work out for more reasons than just his yellow feverish ways. But there were many instances where I wished he could see that there was more to me than just being Chinese.

I don’t deny my heritage. Being Chinese is a part of me, but it represents just a fraction of who I am as a person.

I think it is a very superficial kind of attraction, this crazy little thing called yellow fever. It makes me feel like we’re the flavour of the month, much like Latin music circa 1998.

At yet another grad drinks recently, I was introduced to the Divorcee, a major flirt and quasi-attractive.

A few days later, the Divorcee phoned me at work. But having been accustomed only to hearing the Heartbreaker on the other end of the work phone, I mistook the Divorcee for the zero flirt and ultra attractive Heartbreaker.

“Heartbreaker? What’s up? You coming for Gold Button’s birthday tonight?” I asked.

Silence.

“Hello?” I whispered loudly.

“Is this Polly?” a deep voice asked.

“Yes.” I asked, “You’re not Heartbreaker?”

“Who do you think it is?” the deep voice quizzed.

“Oh shit. Divorcee? Is that you?” It had suddenly occurred to me that the Divorcee could have got my number on the internal work contacts.

“What do you think?”

“Divorcee? No, wait. Heartbreaker. No, Divorcee?” At this point, the rest of my team began to snigger at my side of the conversation.

“Baby, I’m hurt. You think I’m Heartbreaker?” The Divorcee feigned disappointment.

“Well, I only ever really get calls from him on this number,” I justified.

“I’m sure you have plenty of men calling you.”

“No, pretty much just him. You sound alike.”

“Does he have a deep sexy voice like this?”

This continued for a while until I realised that the conversation could potentially turn Easygoing Manager into Stick-Up-Bum Manager.

Trouble. I smelt trouble.

If history is anything to go by, the Divorcee is exactly the type of fire I play with and then get burnt by.

To be continued. Possibly.

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.

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.

My creative outbursts are always in overdrive during exams. I had a great many things to write about over the last two weeks, but such urges were quashed as I chained myself to my laptop in order to write my thesis and study mundane things like Stochastic Analysis. Now that everything is finished and done (forever!) I feel my brain shrivel up like a prune.

Last week, the Mallavian Whiz told me about his favourite poem. He sent it to me, possibly hoping I could derive some inspiration from it during the exams. No such luck. I was as lacking in inspiration to write my thesis as ever. Frankly, as far as the thesis was concerned, there was no better inspiration than mugs of coffee without any sleep for several nights.

I could not draw any inspiration from the MW’s favourite poem because it was in Chinese and written hundreds of years ago. My modern Chinese tongue is lacking in proficiency at the best of times (dare I remind you about the Olympic diver episode?), so the cryptic limericks of dynasties from yesteryears sent me into a spin.

I asked the wise Pixie for help to decode the poem. O wise Pixie, at least she can read the gossip columns in the Chinese papers without confusion.

Alas, Pixie had much more fun poking fun at my current supposedly ambiguous friendship than being of any help. She emailed back with the following interpretation:

Blue blue is thy robe,
Weary is my heart.
Obstacles on thy path,
When shall I dance to the music?

I decided to have a second opinion. What better people to ask than my own kind parents? So after dinner one night last week, we gathered around the dining room table for Ancient Chinese Poetry Appreciation 101.

“See that last word on the first line? It’s another word for the robes scholars used to wear,” Dad pointed out.

“I’m not too sure about that word in the last line,” Mum contributed. “I have never seen it in my life.”

Before any progress was made in Ancient Chinese Poetry Appreciation 101, my kind parents morphed into the overly concerned parents of only child; they questioned my sudden interest in own culture after years of perceived denial.

“Why is this young man writing you poems?” Mum asked, but obviously thinking, how long have you known this young man? Should we be worried about possible grandchildren?

“He didn’t write it. It’s a poem from the Tang dynasty.” Dad smugly said, but obviously thinking, bloody fool couldn’t come up with anything original.

“What sort of person is he?” Mum continued with her questions, but obviously wanting to know, is he good enough for my baby girl?

“How did you meet this boy?” Dad asked, but obviously implying, I hope you didn’t meet him at that club you went to last Saturday night.

Bugger. Why could it have been Browning, Plath, or Madonna? I would have been able to tear through the metaphors and alliterations with greater competence and without assistance coupled with interrogation.

Between the two of us, my best mate Pixie and I exhibit the most comprehensive knowledge of movie and music history. I recently got her hooked on the Internet Movie Database website. Every couple of days, I get a 'did-you-know' phone call from her.

'Did you know that Colin Firth is going to be in a new movie playing a lobotomist?' she said this afternoon.

'No. No way. He can't break my heart like that. It was bad enough he was in that stupid What a Girl Wants.' I replied, feeling a little like a disappointed lover who just discovered that the object of her affection fancied her brother.

'Maybe Livia wants the money,' she said of Colin Firth's Italian wife.

'And he might be thinking about sending Luca and Matteo to some expensive snobby private school.' I resignedly admitted that Mr Darcy already has kids with his Italian wife.

Pixie is the only friend who can comprehend such a devastation.

A few days ago, I was talking to the Mallavian Whiz. The difference in conversation is very clear. There is no mutual understanding at all.

'Knuckle Head is very particular about his food. He orders in a certain way,' said the MW of a guy he has classes with.

'You mean like in When Harry Met Sally?'

'Who?' asked the MW.

'When Harry Met Sally! The movie? Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan?! You've never seen that?!' I was a little exasperated.

'No. So, Harry is a picky orderer at restaurants too?' the MW innocently asked.

`No! Sally! It's SALLY who's the picky orderer!' I almost screamed. 'Have you seen Sleepless in Seattle? Blackadder? Monty Python? Bridget Jones' Diary? ...'

He just kept shaking his head, much to my disbelief.

'You have to be a picky orderer in South Korea,' the MW finally said when I had stopped listing film names.

'When were you in South Korea?' I asked.

'A couple of years ago, when I was there for the IMO.'

'For what? International Monetary Organisation?' I asked.

'No. That's IMF. International Monetary Fund. IMO is International Mathematics Olympiad.'

'Oh,' I said, suddenly feeling very stupid. I suppose that's why the MW is the one going for the university medal and Colin Firth still remains the single most significant relationship in my life.

The most surprising thing of 2004 has been my newfound friendship with the Mallavian Whiz. For a large part of my undergrad years, he has been a mere speckle on my radar; I noticed him, I thought he was slightly odd and I never really acknowledged his presence except to poke fun at his oddness.

It wasn’t until this year that I actually began to talk to the MW. And it wasn’t until recently that the MW and I started to converse about things other than Stochastic Calculus. I am ashamed to admit that I only started talking to him because I needed help with assignments that I couldn’t figure out on my own.

Now upon closer acquaintance, I feel like a male lead in a teen comedy. I am Freddie Prinze Jr., who suddenly realises that some Hilary Duff or similar character is quite interesting behind a façade of Mallavian Calculus.

Before I get any further, I should note that the MW and I are not about to conclude the chapter with an ending worthy of a teen comedy. Don’t expect any sentimental violin solos accompanying the MW sashaying down the stairs of his parents’ house in a slinky prom dress with me ready to tie a corsage on his wrist.

The MW thinks I am quite mad. The other day we were discussing the constant bickering between China and Taiwan. I likened it to a couple experiencing a bad break up that has lasted over fifty years.

“The thing is, MW, if you really love someone, you should set them free,” I said, jokingly.

The MW, being the serious man that he is, was unimpressed and speechless. I don’t think my likening him to Hilary Duff will be of any comfort either.

The last episode of Sex and the City finally aired tonight. I was rather disappointed. After six years of emotional investments, I am left feeling like I've accidentally dropped the last piece of a thoroughly enjoyed chocolate brownie on the floor.

Perhaps what was more of a let down was Mr Big's name.

John. Fucking John! Out of all the names in the world, and after having six years to come up with a name for Big, they decided call him John. I was livid.

I've had problems with the name John. I don't seem to have much luck with Johns. They're either liars of the most generic type, or annoying weasels of the can't-exchange-can't-refund-can't-get-rid-of variety. Now, I take extra precaution when introduced to people with the name John. I even heed the warning bells when they are its foreign counterparts, like Jean or Ioan (unless it's Gruffudd, in which case, I will wrap him in a bow and send him to Pixie).

Perhaps John is an appropriate name for Big. He certainly possessed the troublesome characteristic of a John. I think I can now come to terms with this oversight on part of the writers. On the contrary, I commend their impeccable insight into the elaborate psyche of Johns.