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.

I've said goodbye to many people over the past several days; some I'm sure I won't see for a long time, some I know I will not ever see again in my life, and some who I will miss dearly but take in the comfort that we didn't really utter goodbyes.

Careful, this may get so corny that it's indigestible without a hearty dollop of butter.

Tonight, I had dinner with Pixie and Anonymous, my two bestest friends in the whole wide world (says the thirteen-year-old inside me). I know that Melbourne is only an hour's flight away, but I shudder at the thought that soon I will not be able to see them at a moment's notice.

I'm asked often why I want to move to a strange city away from my friends. Sometimes I'm at a loss for an answer.

I am still happy at the thought of the freedom and the anonymity. But the lingering thoughts for those I'm leaving behind tugs at my heartstring.

When the doubts start to accumulate, I try to remind myself of that Robert Frost poem:

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood..."

It's calming effects have slowly eroded as the goodbyes escalate.

Goodbyes are horrible. They seem so definite and terminating. When Pixie and I parted earlier this evening, we made a point not to hug each other goodbye nor utter the word.

The heavily pouring rain fit the scene as I drove home.

Have wundervull friends.

Love my wundervull friends who are generous, kind and trek from far away places to say adieu before I leave.

I leave next week.

I will miss my dear wundervull friends. Ja, I will miss their wundervull ways; who's going to start speaking in woeful German and Russian with me when drunk??

Methinks I will treasure moments. Wundervull moments like that of coercing Gigglesworth to steal glassware from the CBD Hotel and becoming fugitive on run from Clarence Street to Kent Street.

Methinks also that I will treasure cheap momentos. Silly momentos like Gigglesworth's glass and the one-dollar pendant from the Delightful Young Man.

Wundervull! Чудесно! Danke sie. Good night. Or morning, rather.

There is a clear difference between paternal and maternal love. A fine example of which can be found in my family.

Amidst the intense heat of summer, we are all in an uproar in preparation for my departure to Melbourne. As an only child, this uproar is by no means any kind of exaggeration.

For two days straight, my mother took me shopping for new work clothes. I bought up big on crisp business shirts and conservative tops to go with the two sets of suits I already own. Momma, however, found my taste dull. She insisted on picking up sparkly low-cut tops.

"Darling, you're being boring," said Momma, holding up a sequined-neck backless number. "Your clothes should have personality!! This shirt screams attention! You'll stand out from the crowd!"

"I'll definitely stand out from the crowd after they fire me for indecent exposure."

"You should not waste your youth. If I was your age, I would only ever wear revealing clothes. Show your skin while you still can."

I stood my ground and vetoed the idea of showing up for my first proper yuppie job dressed like a skank trying to land a banker at bar on a typical Friday night. As Pixie once rightly said, "we do not get to be investment bankers by wearing fuck-me boots."

While Momma tried to diversify my wardrobe, Poppa went shopping for me as well. He stopped at his favourite Hardware House and forked out some serious cash on pliers, hammers, nails and screw drivers.

"Essential items. I wrote down a list of them. I'll get you some ropes and a small jigsaw tomorrow," promised Poppa.

He fears that his beloved only child may get trapped in the wilderness with lions, tigers and bears when in Melbourne. My super-boyscout-Poppa is prepared for anything.

My friend, Gigglesworth, sent an email in which she wrote the following regarding the upcoming big move south:

I think ------ is an arse. Not worth losing sleep over. You've got that wonderful adventure ahead of you in Melbourne.
And don't forget the AFL hotties!!!!!!!!!!!! Too hot!!!

But as the date draws nearer, I am dreading it more. I even think that the aforementioned hot football players are not as enticing as the familiar friends in Sydney. A well toned six-pack has nothing over Pixie's sardonic conversations. Nor does it beat the Mallavian Whiz's unbelievably strange and yet obliging ways.

I fear that this blog will become less funny in the months to come. It will probably be splattered with complaints of loneliness as I struggle to find my footing. Hopefully, funny anecdotes will still find its way here.

This has to be my most un-funny post. Perhaps, I will sign off with something humourous for old times sake.

Think. Think of something funny. The audience awaits.

Oh, yes. At the wedding of High School Rival and Chubby Solicitor last Sunday -- for which I looked so devastatingly luscious that I kind of felt bad for the bride -- we were given soap bubbles to blow instead of throwing confetti after the ceremony. The child in me was very excited; colourful bubbles in the sunlight! I haven't had such a delight since childhood!

The bridal party was late due to the bride's father sudden loss of directions. Suspicious, considering he's taxi driver. But I was happy at the opportunity to play with the soap bubbles that came in a miniature keepsake bottle.

Pop! went the dove shaped lid. Shit! said Polly as bottle slipped out of her hand and all the soapy liquid spilt down the front of her outrageously beautiful pink silk ruffled dress.

As High School Rival and Chubby Solicitor promised to grow old together, I sheepishly tried to pretend that I was not a two-year-old who had just peed down the front of my dress.

Friday night, a box of Belgian chocolates sat opened on my lap. Exotic variety with flavours such as Raspberry Framboise, Hazelnut Orange Praliné, Gianduja, Walnut Noix, and Amaretto…one of the best presents my favourite uncle has ever sent from London. He always sends excellent birthday and Christmas goodies. For my birthday last year, he sent me a series of pictures he took at Abbey Road.

Chocolates pieces quickly started to vanishes. I stared at the nearly empty tray in the box with sadness. I lifted the box away from my lap to stop myself before they all disappear.

Ooh. Box still weighty.

Maybe box is just heavy.

But what if this is like that episode of ‘That 70s Show’, and like Fez, I discover a whole new layer of chocolates underneath the empty top tray?

In manner of Howard Carter discovering Tutankhamun’s tomb, I slowly took out the top tray. The great chocolatical find of this century was unearthed; grand jewels like Soft Caramel Mou, Pistachio, Marron Glace, and Cointreau laid out in magnificence on a whole new layer.

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.

Growing up, Christmas held little significance for me apart from the stifling heat in which I would wait for my parents to come home from work, whence I would complain about our lack of Christmas spirits. I was not really the modern day Tiny Tim, but my dramatic whinges about our tinsel-less existence would have made Mr. Dickens very proud.

Lest you picture a bleak Christmas with a young Polly dressed in rags and constant cries of “please sir, can I have some more?”, I should write that though I spent Christmas mornings alone in a Christmas tree-less flat, we always sat down to a scrumptious Christmas dinner in the evening. My parents fused the best worlds of Oriental cuisine and fresh Aussie seafood: Peking ducks with plum sauce, prawns and lobsters, mud crabs with shallots and ginger, cold smoked turkey and potato salads, etc. But despite having my stomach filled to such a capacity that would have brought eternal joy to Oliver Twist, I was a spoilt bratty girl who still “asked for more”.

Every year I would ask for a Christmas tree, and each time I was met with the same answer that our flat was too cluttered for a tree. I did not get over the disappointment until I was at least nineteen.

My bitterness was made worse by parents who insisted on including tree ornaments for my presents every bloody year. What they saw as an act of kindness -- to replace any feeling of loss on account of no trees -- was merely adding salt to the wound.

A few days ago, I realised that Pixie’s dad did the opposite to her. He bought her a lovely plastic pine tree, but denied her tree ornaments. If only we had discovered the polar scrooge-ness of parents earlier; we could have had one perfect tree together.

This Christmas, things are a little different. I finally got a tree to put up all those ornaments. My parents decided to make my last few months in Sydney memorable by giving me my long-wished for tree. It’s a plastic replica which we will, according to Mum, “use over and over again when the grandkids come over”.

Mir recently wrote that parents change their die-hard habits at the arrival of grandchildren. It seems my parents even change theirs for grandchildren of the phantom variety.

Shopping for the tree was quite a drama. Dad did not really care what we got, but Mum insisted on absolutely the best.

“I will not have your kids say to me: wai-pou (maternal grandmother), our Christmas tree is crap,” she said when I recommended a thin plastic one costing only thirty dollars.

In the end we settled on a plastic cashmere pine.

“Smell that! It even smells like a real one,” Mum said once I set up my long-awaited tree.

“No. I’m sure that’s the plastic you’re smelling,” I said.

“Just take a whiff. It’s pine-smelling plastic.”

“I don’t think it’s good for you to be sniffing plastic.” But I did it anyway.


And on this night before Christmas: Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

My mobile phone sprang into its polyphonic splendour while I was driving along the M4 motorway last week. I didn’t want to risk a fine by answering it. My mother, in the passenger seat, dove straight into my bag and flip opened my phone. I screamed for her to just let the phone ring out.

“Harlow?” said mummy dearest without notice to my panicked cries. “Now Polly drive at the road. She call later.”

My eyes wandered off the road and stared at her in horror momentarily. There are still moments of my life when I’m immature and bratty enough to feel ashamed of my mother’s broken English.

“Was it Pixie?” I asked after she hung up.

“No. It was a man. A man named Gay,” Mum answered, eyeing me suspiciously. “Who’s Gay?”

“Gray. G-R-A-Y.”

It was my friend Gray from uni, calling to confirm Friday night’s dinner plans with the Bear and Funk-Sole-Brother - events which in retrospect deserve their own blog post.

My mother has the habit of putting her own twist on my friends’ names: Felicity becomes Solicity, Resan (a masculine Kurdish version of Richard) turns into Roseanne, and Ricky spins into Licky.

“Why did you have to answer the phone? You said it all wrong. You sounded horrible.” I said cruelly. I drove in silence for the rest of the way home. I was not at my most dutiful-daughter-self.

As I watched her make wontons later that afternoon, I sheepishly tried to redeem myself.

“I'm a tightarse, mum. I didn't want to pay for the phone call back.”

Maybe mother knows best: she put extra shrimp roes in my wonton soup that evening. It's unclear if they were shrimp roes of forgiveness. We're not a very expressive nor transparent family.

I spent the night in melancholy reflection. While I float around with dreams of being a writer, it dawned on me that my parents will not be able to read anything that I write.

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.

High School Rival and Chubby Solicitor have been taking dance lessons in preparation for their wedding. On Monday night, they invited their close friends to waltz with them so that we do not look like an embarrassing bunch of Britney Spears impersonators in January.

A look of pure hatred and horror came over my face when I foxtrotted my way into the suburban dance studio. While I remembered to be in comfortable clothes and shoes, no one told me that the other essential accessory was a partner.

The three ladies and three gentlemen quickly latched onto each other. The lonely girl who had earlier fancied herself becoming the hottest dance sensation since Hugh Jackman was paired off with the dance instructor’s camp English husband.

“I will lend you my husband, Emery,” said the dance instructor with an impossibly small bum.

“Hullo there, muffins,” greeted Emery, in a pink silk shirt and tight black pants.

I fought the urge to take the dance instructor aside and relay to her Liza Minnelli’s romantic history.

Emery sang to Michael Bublè as we glided across the floor. Under his impeccable guidance, I was becoming quite competent. But I couldn’t stop staring at my feet.

“You know, I can’t keep my eyes off my feet,” I said.

Emery suddenly stopped. He led me to the side of the room and proceeded to examine my feet.

“Muffins, they are very interesting looking feet,” he declared. “Now, keep your eyes locked on my bluish grey eyes and you won’t worry a thing about making a mistake.”

I swapped partners with the Bridesmaid halfway through Fly Me to the Moon. Chubby Solicitor’s friend from the law firm, Bubble-O-Bill, was a massive ball of nervousness. He also had a habit of forming saliva bubbles around his mouth when he spoke.

Bubble-O-Bill did not have Emery’s grace and elegance. My interesting feet lost their rhythm. When came the time to do the fancy twirling bit, I spun out of control and slid ten feet across the dance floor on my knees.

Sensing my distress, Emery came back to be my partner again. But I no longer possessed my earlier brilliance.

“Muffins, what’s wrong with you? You were Ginger Rogers before. Now you’re stomping around like it’s a hoe-down,” said Emery with alarm.

“It’s Bubble-O-Bill,” I whispered. “He’s made me bad.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Muffins. It happens to the best of us,” Emery assured me. “I danced with my uncle Frank one wedding. Came out of that with bloodied toes and deepest sympathy for my poor aunt Vera.”

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.