Two weeks ago, I turned 26. The momentous occasion this year was all the more special when I received a Graf von Faber-Castell mechanical pencil from Le Garçon.Though it is not jewellery or handbag, it is more than enough bling to last me for a very very long time.
[1989. Shanghai, China.]

I saw my first mechanical pencil at a stationery store on Huaihai Road with my Mama. It was shiny silver with a handsome black grip. I thought it was the classiest thing I had ever seen in my life and bound to make me have the best handwriting in the whole school. Unfortunately, this was back in the old country - fine things were rare and expensive.

"You can have that pencil if you get full marks in your test next week," my Mama bribed. It took a bold statement like that to move me away from the glass cabinet that the mechanical pencil was encased in.

I studied my times table and Chinese poetry like crazy that week. But as fate would have it, I didn't get full marks. I got 89% in Chinese and 97% in Maths. I stared at the numbers in the report card with bitterness as I thought about how the mechanical pencil was going to be encased in that glass cabinet forever. I was seven-years-old and had already started to develop a tendency for the melodramatic.

Slowly, I began to change the numbers on the report card. I was seven-years-old and had not yet learned that there was no possible way of making either "89" or "97" look like "100".

On the way home, the guilt of it all started to weigh down on me. I was also aware that the two 100's did not really look that legitimate. It all got too much that when I handed my passive Papa the report card, I burst out crying and fessed up.

Like how they were for the rest of my childhood, they didn't lose their temper or yell. They simply said they were disappointed and it was enough for the water works to overflow the dam again.

A few days later, while shopping with my Mama, I saw the mechanical pencil again in the same store. I stared at it again and quickly walked away. But this time, Mama pulled me back to the glass cabinet.

"You changed your marks so you could have this, didn't you?" she asked.

I sheepishly agreed.

"I was going to buy it for you anyway. But if I buy it for you today, you will have to never lie again."

I nodded but I felt awful. It was a prize I shouldn't have won. It was also 3RMB and I knew that Mama only took home 20RMB a week. When I finally held the pencil in my hand, I got no satfisfaction in knowing that it was mine. It was tainted goods. I put it in my desk drawer when I got home and never used it.
"So that's the worst thing you've ever done in your whole life?" Le Garçon asked when we were trading childhood stories about a year ago. "You fibbed your way into getting some pencil and that's the worst you've got?"

"It was a mechanical pencil! And I lied to get it and mum still bought it for me even though it cost 15% of her weekly wage! I was a horrible child!"

"That's still the worst thing you've ever done?" He asked in disbelief.
On my birthday, I tore through the wrapping and shook the box slightly to hear if it sounded like the pair of earrings I had been hinting for all week. When I finally opened the white oblong box, I was seven-years-old again, staring at the classiest thing ever.

"So you can have one legitimately now," he said.

But what was I supposed to tell my parents? I have not spoken about my downfall of 1989 since the event.

A day later, my passive Papa called.

"What did the Boy get you for your birthday?" he asked.

"He got me a mechanical pencil."

"A what?"

"Remember that time in second grade when I changed my mark so I could get a mechanical pencil?" It was inevitable to relive the shame all over again.

"No? When did that happen?" Passive Papa was clueless.

"In second grade! Mum said I could only have it if I aced my tests that term." I was starting to get exasperated that he couldn't remember the worst thing I have ever done in my life.

"So you changed marks?" Passive Papa started to laugh.

"Yes. I felt awful."

"Why your mother not buy it for you? It couldn't be that much!" He said sympathetically.

"But she did! And it was 3RMB when you guys only made 20RMB a week!"

"How you still remember that?" he asked.

"How do you not remember that??" I asked, "You mean I've been carrying the guilt of this horrible thing I did for almost twenty years and you guys don't even remember?"

"No. Can't remember."

Whenever I am home, my mama likes to show me the various things she has bought in the time I have been away. Her ever-changing taste never ceases to amaze me.

"I got new jeans," she said, proudly showing off a pair of pale blue jeans.

They looked innocent enough. Until I noticed the zippers that ran along each side from the waist down to the bottom of the legs.

Essentially, my mama bought stripper jeans.

"Look at the zippers!" She said excitedly when she noticed me staring at them in shock, "they are the best part!"

I am spending this weekend with my parents in Sydney. I've not seen them since Easter and that equals almost four months without their eccentricities and salivating home cooking.

As soon as we got home from the airport last night, my mother put the kettle on. As I stood there waiting for the water to boil, she informed me that the water in the kettle was off limits but there was enough hot water in the thermos for me to make tea.

"What are you doing?" I asked, as she started to concoct a strange mix of green herbs with Indian henna dye.

"I take sick days for the next three days you here," she said while beating an egg into the mixture. "I need to dye my ankle to look like a bruise. Tomorrow I go doctors, look real and I get medical certificate."

"Why can't you pretend to have a cold? Or a migraine?"

"Not severe enough," she said with an air of experience. "Here, help me bind my ankle. Make the strapping tight."

When my parents got their passports renewed recently, I was their "in case of emergency". Such a role came with heavy responsibility, which to be frank, I overlooked initially until one chilly morning I received a phone call as I was on my way into work.

Serious person on phone: "I understand from Father of Swell Mademoiselle's passport application that you are his in case of emergency contact."

Oh no, I thought. What kind of hot water has my passive papa got himself into? A phone call like that about my mama is not unexpected, but the solid paternal figure of my life never gets into any trouble.

Serious person on phone: "We have just received his passport application and there appears to be a bit of problem."

Me: "Okay."

Serious person on phone: "He's smiling."

Me: "And that's a problem?"

Serious person on phone: "Yes, he can't smile on passport photos. It's a problem for the facial recognition program used for machine readable passports. He should have a neutral expression showing no teeth or gum."

Me [finding this all too funny]: "Right. I guess none of those terrorists ever smile eh? Not a hint of gum there."

Serious person on phone: "This is a serious matter, can you please just pass on the message to your father please.

Me: "Sure, no problem."

After several months of persuading by those incessant emails screaming "I've added you as a friend on facebook", I have finally relented. And it is an amazing world of facebook I have discovered. 19 friends and counting.

During the course of the day at work, Pants Wearing PA and I hop on at our respective desks and moan to each about how bored we are:
Swell Mademoiselle [current status] is wishing she had called in sick today.
Pants Wearing PA [status] is also wishing she had chucked a sickie.

At times the connection at Rather Large Bank fails us. Then a spate of
"I can't LOG ON!"
"Phew! Thought it was just me!"
"Crap! We have to resort to Lotus Notes!"
bounce back and forth.

During my lunch break at the pilates studio the other day (a recently ventured activity in an attempt to make a stunning entrance as a bridesmaid next year), my face was booked by the receptionist. He is one of those spunky new age types that smelled of ylang ylang. A mass of politically correct organically knitted green sweater that took down my details as I got sucked in for a ten session pass.

"Can I get your email? You know, just in case we have to change class schedules."

"Yep. It's ___@gmail.com."

"Gmail? That's the way to go. Isn't it the best?" Green ylang ylang man approved in his Brunswick Street cool manner. "Wait. Have you got facebook as well?!"

I rushed back to the office, logged onto facebook for the umpteenth time that day and changed the security settings on my account.

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."

I think I may have written something to this effect back in late 2004, amidst exams and thesis:

"Grr...have to stop wasting time mucking about on computer writing stupid stuff. Have a thesis to write. Have another 100 pages of thesis to write. Have to present thesis in TWO DAYS!"

So here I am again. The CFA exam is in 75 days, there are probably 75,000 pages yet to be read and I am happily typing away.

I suppose an absence of over a year warrants an update on all the old favourite characters, and possibly introduction to some new ones.

My hot momma took a long time to adjust to her little duckling moving out of home. While visiting me in Melbourne at Easter last year, she gave me another ten months of freedom before moving back home. That did not eventuate. I stood my ground and am still happily enjoying freedom with intermittent trips home every few months. I think she is back to her former happy self now with some new friends - new wild friends with tattoos, I might add.

My lovely poppa is like the constant in a regression equation (apologies, I just read up on regression analysis yesterday). He has not changed. I enjoy the conversations we have, especially while he fixes the heels of my shoes whenever I am up in Sydney (and saving myself $8 per shoe in the process).

Every night, at just after eight without fail, they call me on my mobile because that's when Optus free time kicks in.

"Have you had dinner?" mum usually begins.

"Yep, just had dinner," I answer, sometimes begrudgingly because it seems there is never a new topic of conversation.

"What you have?"

"A potato and spinach salad," I said today.

"What??! Just salad for dinner? Any bread?" she said with alarm.

"I didn't want bread," I explained, not really wanting to go into my aversion to carbohydrates late at night.

"What about rice? What about soup?"

"No rice! NO SOUP!"

"Aiya. If you were at home, you could have had soup." She always made four dishes and a soup every night.

Some nights, I make up dishes and soups to tell her, things that would not be possible for me to make in the little time I have after coming home from work. Grilled salmon, mama! With some chicken broth to start! And quiche too!

Bah! The books are staring me down! Looks like I will have to introduce the new characters next time. Stay tuned.

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

‘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?”

According to a Melbourne urban myth, Barbie dolls stripped of their itsy-bitsy clothes walk the city streets on late nights. One night, while out with Pixie, Cartman and several other visiting friends, we came across our first ever wondering Barbie. A passerby was as amused by her as us and insisted on being in the photo.