Started new contract today - unsurprisingly buggered, and surprisingly have second cold of the year (sickness for me is normally confined to uterine pain and hangovers and the occasional bad back -- hence, I am a shit sick person).

Ho hum. Grumpy.

This blog is coming to you from (checks flightpath) 6715 meters, somewhere over Indonesia. Will post when I land however; this class doesn’t have wifi at this altitude.

An interesting week at work in Singapore, possibly the final time I will be there for work (at least on this project), topped off by an even more interesting afternoon. Colleague Jood and I schlepped off after today’s ‘briefing session’ at about 4.30 and decided to go back to hotel, gather things and head to Changi to take our chances on getting on the 9pm flight back to Melbourne (when currently booked on 12.25am). As we waited for cab outside hotel, I picked up my laptop case. It felt decidedly light.

Look inside. Yup. Case devoid of laptop. Bollock.

No bother, we think, cab can take us via office. Done and done. Meter left running, taxi parks semi illegally while I run back into office building, take lift 38 floors up, sneak back into office, find laptop sitting innocuously in meeting room with my diary and silver bracelet I always take off to type. Gather up items, while surreptitiously checking over shoulder so no-one sees me and a) tries to start talking to me about the Change stream, b) notices that I left valuable company property unattended. Sneak out to lift lobby humming ‘mission impossible’ to myself, only to get in lift with the Head of Recruitment for Asia who laughs, telling me he had seen the whole thing, and that I was wasting valuable drinking time.

Run back to cab. Get to airport. Flutter eyelashes, charm, get girls out etc to try and get on earlier flight. They will advise in 'due course' but flight chockers. I wander off for shower (lovely), then some risotto balls (yummy actually) and chased by campari and orange (several.) Colleague Jood, meanwhile, goes off to get whiskey for husband and perfume for herself. Note this; this will be important shortly.

Bored by the garrulous middle aged broads from Adelaide in lounge next to me, decide to pop out for quick ciggie, start talking to oil man from Auckland. Feeling fantastic and alive. Pop past customer service desk to obtain status on charming /nagging way onto earlier flight….

Success!! Yes, have been bumped onto sooner flight! Boarding pass for 9pm is issued. Hurrah!! However, problem. Jood has purchased not one, but two duty free items ready for pickup at the original gate at midnight. Must pass back there to advise. Much fucking around with dopey duty free attendants from shops one and two. Oh fuck. Flight closing. Fuckedity fuck. Run to gate. Get to gate, get duty free. Phew.

Sit in seat. Asked to change so couple in matching velour (!!!) can sit together. No bother. My this time in mild state of hypertension. Gratefully inhale complimentary champage (numbers one and two.)

Fucking fucking hell.
Anyway, all good now. On a flight pointing its nose at melbourne. Time for some stupid movies and another gin and tonic and if I am self medicating so fucking be it. Bumpy as fuck as it always seems to be over Indonesia.

Tomrorrow I will have a steak and broccli, have a proper latte and sleep in my own bed. And I literally cannot wait.

So as I walked home this afternoon, across the Merri creek bridge, having quickly popped out for broccoli, (working from home today – 40 documents to produce by end of next week, somehow) I indulged myself in a little fantasy. Cos fantasies are fun – just ask that chick from Offspring.

I fantasised I would get home, and after weeing, and find that:
- the letterbox would contain not just the mail of five departed flatmates, but the cashback cheque from Acer I am waiting on;
- new email notification would be waiting advising that Trip to Singapore was organised, including a weekend in Malaysia for being the best consultant the team has ever had;
- money would be credited to my account from my ex boss along with a quick voicemail to say 'sorry for the four month wait', and 'we have added on a bonus as a severance'.

None of the above happened. Perhaps I should be more realistic in my waking lucid dreams.

So, have ticked another of life's boxes - having travelled in business class (Singapore & return). Everything I thought it would be and more - flat beds, cocktails, and all the food they can chuck at you. And that's just in the air. They (work) wanted their pound of flesh for it though - 12 hour days and about 3 minutes to myself the whole time. Last week has been manic. Have turned into total corporate whore.

Exhausted. Tea, chocolate and Flying Doctors marathon on. Am going to have a bath and then I am going to bed.

If you ever wondered what it was women discussed amongst themselves, here is a quick summary of the topics covered by BJ Moulder and me after dinner last night (in chronological order, cocktails being consumed):
- Labor government
- Some people we know who rushed into a relationship and the current s.o.p.
- Aboriginal affairs
- Daylesford trip
- Real estate in Daylesford
- Bra brands
- Whether or not it was acceptable to not wear knickers if you are wearing control tights
- Back to Labor and the Malaysia solution
- Carbon tax
- Frustration as a voter
- Control underwear - warm in winter

Now you know. I haven't even censored this.

Sister annoyed re below, writing to me that:

'BTW - the club in Whitechapel was drum and bass not trance. That is a gaff (sic) of sacrilegious proportions where I come from'

Indeed.

Singapore this week; work this time. Quite excited although it will be challenge.

Finally, despite rejections and despite the benefit of doubt being kicked back in my face, and no matter how exhausting it is being optimistic, I am still determined to live a happy life.

Big week; about to be followed by even bigger week....am off to Singapore for work. I really like my job - I find it very energising and am working with some great people. Consulting can be fickle but suits my short attention span.

Saturday checklist:
- Conversation with class A sister who is about to 'head out to a fantastic trance club in Whitechapel' - done
- Wax - done
- Breakie, paper, coffee - done
- Hair - done
- Accompanying trash mags x3 (Kim K*rdasian's new curves / drug fears / engagement surprise / plastic surgery shocker) - check
- Smackway shopping for quiche - done
- Reply to text from Mother '$39 tunic dress from Stax!!!' - done
- Quiche in oven for BJ dinner - done
- Beer / cider in fridge - done
- Dylan Moran youtube clips - WIP
- Drink and giggles n roof -
- Wesley Ann for to see off Y. Maya -

Slight gap in Saturday schedule between laundry and nail taming, so popped up the High St in Westgarth for a quick nose around the arty farty designy shops. One second hand dealers near Ruckers Hill is run by an interesting woman of the older persuasion. As soon as I entered the cramped space that was the shop, filled with all manner of knick knacks, I was greeted by said manageress.

'Hello, love, good afternoon' she said.

'Hi there' I said, 'how are you?'

There was a pause.

'How am I? HOW AM I? If another person asks me that today I am going to get so angry. Honestly you don't know me, why would you ask me that?'

'Um, er, um...' I simpered, backing into a stack of mothballed fur coats and metre high stacks of 1950s newspapers.

'But love, why do people ask that? people who don't know me shouldn't ask how I am they don't want to know. Why don't they just say hello or good day?'

I inched toward the door, where I was relieved to see a couple come in. I winced, but she laughed as all he commented to her was: 'Surely, this place is a bit bare isn't it?'

I wonder if I am a bit mad looking as well, as I sit here in my hot rollers, dressing gown and a fag in the ashtray, but at least I am in the comfort of my own home. I fully intend to be an old eccentric one day, but think perhaps she takes it a little far; which is a shame because I am very fond of one of the old phones in the window but am too scared to go in again.

Finally I cracked it at the sorry state of my old bed frame last week and thusly, made tracks up to Norfland on Friday and purchased new bed with what Jaq termed a 'plantation shutter style headboard.' Obviously I was in new bed for much of the weekend and only moved twice; once to go and socialise with the young things at Maya's house; the other to suck on clinkers at Westgarth Palace with Beej (the Hangover, despite acting out a photocopied script, is still funny).

And seriously, death by planking is just natural selection. It is.

Just heard that the police are going to be able to fine people for swearing. BJ is going to be bankrupt in a week.

Chronology of mother's visit, May 2011. Several million calories.
1. Mother arrives, drinks then dinner @ Cafe Bedda, Sicilian joint in the N-cote. A-fucking-mazing scallops.
2. High tea at Windsor, pink champers, scones, pastries, sandwiches. Mother: 'you should see the loos. Amazing!'
3. Shop, shop, shop, shop. Wine, movie (water for elephants. Enjoyable but Pattinson is kind of a cock).
4. Breakie and Homo's. Shop, shop, shop, mother spends money money money on dresses. Rain storm hits. My feet get wet as fuck. Mother: 'no wonder you look a bit miserable'.
5. Y&J for some band listening with Moulder and Moulder's parents. (Moulder crushing on the guitarist.) Mother: 'You handled that very well.' (Referring to feral toothless Essendon player who crashed our party.)
6. Dumplings with Dingwall. Mother: 'I wanted to give Tim a kiss goodbye. Should I have or would that have freaked him out?'
7. Drinks with Leesh at supperclub. Mother: 'What a lovely girl!' (Leesh).
8. Dinner Hardware Lane. Gorgeous German waiter flirts. Mother: 'He likes you!'
9. Steak @ Terminus with N-cote crew. Mother tells advent calendar story.
10. Dinner @ melb central and then goodbyes to mother. Mother 'Your mascara is running, darling.'

Hobag flogs sheepskin products for a living these days, and is often quite generous with some of the sample products, including a pair of luxuriously soft yummy gloves, that my friend Dom described as 'Ugg boots for your hands.'

Certainly required this week as the cold of the Melbourne winter hits us like a slap to a bare bum.

Seems both my sister and I are tragic cases of genes and conditioning, as both of us have been drinking and sleeping and crying out for people to fetch us toast all weekend, albeit on opposite sides of planet. I am so proud of her.

Now the daily grind of life has paused, I find myself sleeping 12 hours a day and spoinging off the hospitality of a kind family down in Torkers; very relaxing and lovely. Am actually a bit over the hot cross buns and chocolate now. Never thought I would say that.

And as the media sharks continue on feeding frenzy of royal nuptials, am I the only one who thinks that spending the wedding night at Granny's house is a little odd? Can just imagine it 'you kids alright in there? Warm enough? There's an extra doona in the cupboard if you need one' etc.

It's not that I particularly care about the wedding itself and I don't really care particularly for the royals either. It's the historical bit and the fact the world will watch that interests me.

Back to CV. Frickin CV.

Five Good Things

Whenever I am having a whinge my mother tells me to list five good things, right then and there. And considering the amount of whingeing I have been doing lately, I should probably lay some out. So.

1. I fucking love woggy hilarious cab drivers (an increasingly rare commodity in this city), especially ones that take us from Chapel st to Richmond and take part in our hilarious pisstake of drunken short businessman texting on iphone in line to the feral swan at midnight.

2. Leather blazers, like for instance, the one I have just bought.

3. Hot cross buns, espcially the ones from Brioche on Queen St. They have so much fruit in them it's like eating your five f&vs for the day. And they are fucking delish.

4. My friend Tim with his gammy eye.

5. The hot mint chocolate I am about to make.

Right. Back to some CV updatage.

Sometimes (more than sometimes), you leave your phone at home (under the duvet where it woke you up), and then get home after long day's work (slog) to find no-one has called or messaged anyway and it made no difference whatsoever you left your phone at home and you feel all emo and throw phone across room yelling 'no-one loves me'.

Proved wrong today. Got home at 6.30, to lovely lovely news on phone. It wouldn't have made any difference having known it earlier, but it made my day.

And I really am furious that production on Mad Men s5 has been delayed til 2012. Total rubbish.

Once upon a time a man and a woman shared a house. Theirs was not sharing in the biblical sense; indeed, they were so unbiblical they chose to advertise for a third person to share the good times and the rent, and Noo moved in to Chez Smuth.

And so it came to pass, many years later, (and last weekend) that Dingwall and I made our way up to Daylesford to watch our Noo get married. Bless her. Really the nicest day. And although in some ways marriage is a bit outmoded, I can still see the place for such traditions (and it was a MIGHTY fine pissup. Dingwall and I were the last people there, except for the bride's parents, one sober bridesmaid, and one very very pissed and vomiting bridesmaid who was being looked after by the sober one.)

So, yes, well done Noo, lovely. I feel slightly more optimistic about this marriage than everyone presumably did about this one. (I mean, after 7 failed attempts, wouldn't you possibly be thinking marriage perhaps wasn't for you?)

I first smeared on makeup when I was about 14, during a nutrimetics party. I loved how it covered my adolescent zits and it made me look older, which at my age, was very desirable. Mineral, liquid, powders, I have used them all to polish and define.

It was only very recently I realised I now have to wear it to look younger, rather than older (undesirable).

Oh fuck, that's right. I am 31. 31! Shouldn't I have a house / husband / househusband by now?

Another wine I think. Undoing my work with pt tonight, but am not caring.

Have been slightly scattered of late, and although I could put this down to pressures of new job / home issues but I think its just me being generally a bit shit. I have managed to, of late, for example:

- email Baggage twice in three days with exactly the same news
- leave razor in toilet bag, forage round in toilet bag for mineral makeup, slash off portion of finger skin with furtive razor,
- leave phone in Riggsy's car last night, and
- have it in my head that McD's engagement party was Fri, instead of Sat, when I am oop North at Noo Nuptials.

Yeah, bit shit. But meh.

Been a lame arse all week. New dayjob fullon, meaning too tired (lame) to go out and have a quiet pint for St Paddys. Got a text from the man himself in Dub this eve - saying he had 'gone for a few drinks' the night before, and felt like a 'bladder on a stick'. Funny fucker.

Creme egg was everything I remembered, especially with cup of tea.

And, as much as my housekeeping skills have improved since moving out of home 10 years ago, I will never figure out how to fold up a fitted sheet. Seems like a waste of my time and energy. And time and energy is much better spent at present by boxing sessions, job procurement, and mooning over Anne of Green Gables books.

Yup.

Things are already getting better. I know this because the I won division 6 in Lotto on Saturday - a whole $24!

A ne wjob would be nice though.

As would a creme egg. Only the original kind though. The ads are on already!

Quite difficult to know what to say here.

The funeral was sad, but fine. Jack had a great turnout, despite the brown dust flinging itself everywhere around town, and then a few cronies came back here and drank with us. Good job we had beer here of course, as we didn't have running water until last night.

Truly grateful that no-one close to us died in the disaster. And truly grateful for the sense of humour in my family when dealing with: the organic bog out the back (truly awesome kiwi ingenuity: large bucket, grass clippings, a shovel); the constant boiling of water, having to use bottled water to brush teeth, etc. Only thing of real note at Mum & dads is the pool is cracked, and the fact the bedroom door in my old room is skewed so that it can't be shut - minor things. My paternal grandmother is currently living at Chez St Martins also, as her house isn't quite liveable yet. All manageable. Have felt a few tremors, not very nice. Touch wood.

Went for a walk and saw the old library exposed. The old New World is not going to be re-opened. I saw a couple of guys in diggers playing dodgems and spoke to some nice people around the neighbourhood helping to clean up.

The weather here is quite lovely - I haven't been home at this time for three years and had forgotten how nice the early autumn is. A dip in the pool would be nice, if the pool hadn't drained itself.

Feeling sick with anxiety. Sitting in office alone, attempting to work, all I can think about was how I have to go back to Christchurch.

Weekend improved exponentially, in the company of my brilliant mates on a progressive houseparty through the streets of Northcote. Have done fuckall today besides make some cookies, it's been good.

I know this opinion may not make me the most popular person, but it saddens me very much to see some of the facebook pages calling for public humiliation of those people arrested for looting in Christchurch. I am as appalled by this behaviour as anyone and I am certainly not defending them - truly despicable behaviour. However some of the comments on these pages are beyond hatemongering... some of the posts are downright disturbing. The concept of justice seperates us from the animals, people. This is a time of high emotions and behaving like a lynch mob is not helpful to the healing process.

That's all.

Moulder and I just had some breakie down at Homos - after 4 bottles of wine she couldnt get home last night. Riveted and appalled by the images from home in The Age. 'It pisses me off Michelle,' she said, 'that the papers are actually publishing other news that is going on in the world. Makes me all indignant. There IS no other news!'

I am not an especially spiritual person. I like churches for their historical significance rather than their religious significance. But there was a bit of comfort in the service I attended today at St Pauls, and the Archbishop's sermon was quite onto it. I was a bit weirded out when I noticed that the roof was leaking onto my cleavage, but on closer inspection I realised I was crying. Haven't really cried properly yet. Distracted myself by counting the number of times the 3aw reporter near the front pulpit (Gen Y, heavy handed on the bronzer, brown mary janes) yawned.

Am heading back on Tuesday as Jack's service is likely to be Wednesday. Really, really not relishing going back. But it has been pointed out that I could well have the inbound plane to myself.

I am quite certain that shortly things will get better, as they will have to. Phone call this morning at 6.30 to advise Poppa Jack has passed away; then home town flattened by earthquake. People dead this time. Fucked.

BJ & Leesh just turned up with wine, chocolate and pizza to distract me. Slightly in shock I think, although the shiraz has taken the edge off for a bit.

ARGHHH. Had enough of recruiters*, my thighs hurt from pump class and there are no creme eggs in the house.

Who says 31 is too old for a tantrum?

Also, Canada is in the ICC cricket world cup. As long as we beat them.

*Full throttle on the job procurement. I have three weeks to go though, so really musn't panic. What would Gail do in my situation?

Am perfectly certain, that my Hell, if I am so unfortunate as to get there, will be squats and lunges in pump class. Ouchy fuckin ouch.

And, seriously, why did Neighbours have to go on Channel 11? I have to watch it online now.

Tender head this afternoon and as I peer down at the recycling bin, I think I know why. Four empty bottles of wine, which accompanied me and the girls' thai feast last night. Freaking fabulous way to show off my thai cooking skillz, as well as break the dishwasher (again).

Sunday night is not only ironing night, but put the bins out night. It wasn't until I was hauling the second bin out to the street, the yellow lidded recycling one, that I realised my attire: green pyjama pants, black socks, red ballet ballets and a black cardi. Would have been embarrassed, and then realised I had probably inadvertently started some sort of trend: your average Northcote hipster might spend hours cultivating such a look.

Weary.

It's awards season, not just out there, but in here. So here begins: Miche's fave shit, first in a series of we are not sure how many yet.

Today, the shopping awards:

The' Oooooer Missus' Smalls award

For smalls you cannot, cannot go past Bendon Factory Shop on Smith St. They stock fayreform, bendon and assorted awesomeness. The girls there are super lovely without being overbearing, and they go up to a size g, bless them. Today's bargain? 2 x DimitySo bras plus matching knickers, RRP $121, for $49. They also have shapewear and sleep wear, ranging from naughty to cute to nunlike.

The 'Sorry Edina, we don't have your size' for bitch shop girls award:
Unreservedly, La Figure in DFO. Get over yourselves, and ps, a smile won't break your face.

The 'Internet is not just good for porn' shopping award

Headed up this season by recent ebay discovery:Hibiscus and Sparrow. Good variety, nice styles, reasonably priced. Have several essentials from here and not one disappointment. Honourable mention: Ezibuy. Yup, the good old house of e has been around since I have been buying clothes, and is not bad for work purchases and the odd bargain. Fave e/b label is Grace Hill, fits the old boobs well and pieces have a classic cut.

The 'Oh bloody hell, I have a party this weekend and nothing to wear' great prices, fun dresses award:

Right, couple of frontrunners on this one. Winning by a nose is Friends of Couture. These guys have only been around since 2008, but already have a great profile in Melbourne, with shops in Fitzroy, Collingwood and Brunswick. Lovely vintage inspired bits and pieces and accessories; very 50-60s and ladylike, highly recommended. Runner up, Christopher Ari back on the hallowed turf o Bridge Road. Feminine, fun, bright. Lots of cute sweet dresses, cheap as chips. Picked up outfit for birthday for $39.95 the other week.

The 'am off to a wedding, and am not the bride this time' something special award:

On High St,Madame Farquhars of Westgarth. Little boutique with a few local designs, the girls there know their stuff and will get you to try on all sort of left field dresses that you will go 'oh! look at that! I look nice in orange' etc. Not the cheapest, but for something a bit special, this place is well worth trying.

The UGH I hate having to spend money on work clothes but at least I don't have to wear an ugly uniform' work attire award

Annoying but has to be done, and as women we dont have to blow $1000 on a suit everytime. Pop on down to the basement at Portmans Bourke St mall. Some of the jackets and skirts will be last seasons but well worth a look. Honourable mention goes to Barkins. (Smith St or DFO Spencer St. Structured work dresses and shifts galore. Things from there won't last forever, but reasonably priced anyway.

That's all for now kids. Stay tuned for food awards - The Age has got nothin on me

Crap morning, have attempted to elevate mood with boost bar chased by latte. Chocolate good for what ails you (occasionally).

Anyway it's probably too early for Jamesons.

Unaccountably furious. Perhaps it's the job. Perhaps, the status. Perhaps issues in NZ. Perhaps the fact I was awake at 3am. GRRRRR, fuck and balls.

I know you are not supposed to, really, but there are a few things that my friends possess that I do occasionally covet. Now and then I might wish I had Jaq's awesome figure, or Baggage's constantly cheerful disposition, or B&D's happy relationship.

But, as it turns out, I am coveted among my friends for one thing myself: my lack of hairiness.

Naturally mousey, I rarely defuzz my legs, pluck my eyebrows or take the razor to other tender bits. Close friends regaled tales around the wineglass: stories of IPL and laser removal, ingrown hairs and 70s bushes, and I could only say 'ummmm....'

So a couple of weeks ago I bit the proverbial, asked around, and thought, right, I will give this waxing thing a go. Slightly nervous., I opted for what Baggage called the 'post baby, middle aged' option - a brief bikini. Victoria, the waxer, was exceedingly gentle, told me I did very well, and I was ever so pleased with the result. Lovely and clean and tidy. Now I can join in the conversation.

It strikes me, however, that waxing technicians should take an oath of confidentiality. Jaq came over last night for a cup of tea. She was the one who recommended Victoria in the first place and told me she had been for a visit herself recently. I was aghast that Victoria had blabbed out the fact I was totally nervous and a bit of a pussy (ahem) about the whole procedure.

Is nothing sacred?

Sister has just arrived in UK and has been a guest of Chez Hospital Corners (house of the Hobbaggage) for the last couple of weeks. Am reconsidering wisdom of having sister and best friend forge own friendship, due to following text message:

'I can't believe you ate the chocolates out of your sister's advent calendar. Actually, I can believe it.'

Ok, time for clarification.

1. I did not eat ALL of the chocolates in the advent calendar
2. I ate JUST the ONE
3. Which just happened to be the big one (the Xmas eve one)
4. I then apologised
5. I was about 10 when this happened
6. Philippa was FIVE, FFS.

No jury would convict.

Ah, freaking love a day off in the middle of the week to do all things Strayan: drink, eat a parma, sing Johnny Farnham at the top of lungs, etc. Town is teeming with tourists wearing Aussie Open hats; such a nice night I may walk home and then cook an awesome dinner for my friends and sit up on the roof and eat it.

I actually have no fucking time for people that actually term themselves 'a domestic goddess' (yes, sorry Nigella, you are very beautiful but it includes you also). Today I have swept, mopped, vacuuming, washed, hung, folded, baked some bread, picked some fresh herbs and found some time to do a massive CRM instructional manual. I think that just makes me a homebody.

To counter this hominess, I am headed out down to the Richisland for McD's birthday tonight, and have a lovely longneck of home made cider to start the engines before I go.

Query: am I the only woman in the world who still likes Kevin Costner? Possibly. But that deadpan style and those everyman looks get me every time

Query 2: Should I stop loving on male movie stars? Since when have movie stars done anything for my nads, personally?

Feeling bouyant this evening after playing with Em's daughter, getting heaps of work done and doing some comfort shopping.

It's odd having to leave a job you have been at for two years. There will be many things I will miss; getting paid late or not at all is not one of them.

And now for my next trick....

Just got the super deluxe version of Gone with the Wind on DVD - a whole 5 discs of Clark Gabley goodness. I know it's racist, I know it's old fashioned, I know the ending is sad - but Christ, Clark Gable was a king among men. Even my Nana had a crush on him.

Much socialization over weekend, including awesome celebration at B&D's joint further up in Northcote. They have cleverly constructed their own woodfire pizza oven in the backyard, so there was much much pizza, and there was sun and homebrew, and then I was presented with four longnecks of the cider, of which I helped bottle 4 months ago. Verdict? Very sweet, very yummy. And very fucking alcoholic.

Had one of those cringeworthy moments, though. Was sitting with three women I know through the hostess, all very different from me and from each other (diverse guests, one of the many reasons I like going up to B&Ds). One girl, slightly younger than myself, tall, epically shapely in a white dress against olive skin, leaned back with her roll your own, and said 'Oh, I need a man'.

'Six months', she said. 'Six months since I broke up with Shane and haven't been out with anyone. Long time to be on my own'.

'Don't worry,' said another, this one engaged. American, tiny and lovely. 'I was single three years before I met Dave, and yah, you will get there'.

I should have found an excuse to go the loo at this time. But no. I couldn't resist, and nor could the homebrew in my brain.
'Try eight years, ladies.'

Pause for the first time in at least 45 minutes. Then, 'Eight years???!!!' The reaction was similar to me saying I ate babies for fun.

'Um....yeah.' I decided to be defiant on this one, due to bringing it up and making other people simultaneously feel bad but then relieved it's not them.

Further reactions along the lines of: 'Wow! You must have had some flings in there though?'

'You must be very picky then!'

'You've had a fuckbuddy of course, mate? I mean, fuck!'

'Yeah, you probably have more sex than you would have had you been in a relationship!'

I laughed and gulped down some more icy cider. It was time to agree. 'Oh yeah, of course. Ridiculous amounts you know. Just like Carrie. Never been celibate or anything, God, how sad would that be?'

They looked at me with relief. So I was a goodtime girl after all, rather than some sad spinster. Whew!

'Anyway, you' I said to Annie, the one who had started conversation, 'Go down to NSC tonight and pick someone up. Easy peesy.'

'Ugh' chimed in Bec, a rockabilly chick who likes saying fuck a lot. 'Full of fucking hipster wankers. Fuck that'.

Subject changed. I wish I hadn't have gone there. I know it shouldn't matter, but it does. I am sure there are women out there who have been single for longer and then somehow met their Prince Charming and lived happily ever after. No-one me or my friends know, but I hold hope.

Carly was nice to me yesterday when she got wind of conversation. 'Michelle, the reason people can't believe it is because you are fabulous. It's like, 'me non comprende'. Why the fuck wouldn't you have a boyfriend? Anyway, you have more male interest than most girls I know.'

Not strictly true, but still nice to hear. The fact doesn't hurt as much as it used to; I hope this is because I am more positive about it now, and not because I have become too jaded.... I must stop being a cock about this and have faith it will happen. And in the meantime, stop drinking cider in the sun.

It seems I only have capacity for one boring ballgame in my life, and that is cricket. Tennis on the other hand, I cannot stand. I just can't.

I know it's selfish when Queensland is under 4 feet of water to whinge about the humidity here, but I am going to anyway. I am not very good with mugginess, particularly when I step outside, freshly showered, blowdried, madeup and perfumed, and within 43 seconds I am sweaty and fluffy. Also, flying insects that thrive in such conditions, must think my blood is some kind of very quaffable shiraz, as I am bitten in several places. Feckers.

Doesn't matter, as am getting lovely new bed tomorrow. Am appalled at the number of smutty remarks (three) from my friends (filthy minded, the lot of them) regarding the purchase of a new bed. No, I have not broken my old bed. No, it's not a health risk from the number of backpackers who have lain in it. The fact is it is hard and uncomfortable and cheap, and, as Phillie helpfully pointed out, has been since the day I purchased it in 2004.

But having a filthy mind makes life so much more interesting, doesn't it?

The muggy rainy conditions continue, so I stayed mostly inside today, performing such domesticities as making pesto out of my freshly grown basil, hanging my washing in, and yanking a hairball the size of a small rodent out of the shower drain.

Season 2 SATC DVD on. I still maintain the movies really really didn't need to be made.

Hurtsbridge train home last night after some superb QVM Night Market-ing. Guy sitting across from me is well dressed, straight looking, wedding ring, 35 ish, pulls out his knitting needles and starts purl-one-plain-one.

Fuck I love this city. No-one bats an eyelid at this shit.

For now dears, I am evacuating heated city in favour of surf beach, that way. Do not disturb.

Inner bitch surfaces*

First day back at work, powered by caffeine and cenovis, all manner of jobs to do. And the year creeps into first gear...

My sister, on the other hand, facebook chats me from Italy, but 'only for a moment' as they are 'about to board a bus to Florence'.

Well, la de fucking DAH.

(*This had better be some hormones muttering)

Have only a couple of resolutions this year. One is to be nicer to people.

But that's only in person, and this is my blog where sarcasm is all I have got, so I would just like to comment on this current (i.e. for the last 3 years) trend of sending those ever so sincere texts to your entire phone list along the lines of '2011 is going to be awesome and I hope to share new experiences with you'.

(Oh, sod off Mr Earnest F. Ucker. However, some good ones were beeped through during the course of the evening. Marsy's was quite good: 'Welcome to 2011, I have herpes and you might have it too. Best get it checked out. Happy New Year!')

The other resolution is to learn how to blow dry my hair properly. Mario totally fringed me last time, and although I quite like it, it takes ages for me to get right. First step is find the hairdryer. Have narrowed it down, it's in my room 'somewhere'.

Eat, drink, eat, repeat. So very awesome to go back to ChurChur and see the fam and the girls, get pissed and see the boys, and wake up with a peanut wedged between my breasts. Earthquakes that interrupt my Boxing Day hangover, however, are not very awesome. I finally get it now.

Back to Melbourne, gin, perfume and e-passports - and then straight down to the Peninsula for more chillaxing, some sunburn and some NYE festivities. Tired of doing nothing but eat, Mould, Beej and I popped off to Cape Schanck this arvo, all v lovely, and chased it with some picnic munchies.

A pile of ironing is looking at me, but as I have one box of cereal and some cheese singles in the house, it could be time for some supermachet. Sigh, chores.

Despite nearly 7 years residing in Melbourne, I will never get the appeal of, or interest in, naked hotel photos of AFL players. I. Just. Don't. Geddit. A 17 year old slapper screws a footy player and now wants some revenge facebook stylez. (In other news, the world is round.) Tragically, some 30 refugees died off Christmas Island last week, and this is what makes the news? For shame.

Popping off to airport in three hours and then toddling off back NuZilland, via obligatory bottles for grandfather and father, and possibly a perfumed treat for me. Currently in office, waiting for Boss to show his face and accept his yearly tie.

It's been a really good year, stressful at times, but somehow I feel more at peace than I have been in years. There isn't much that life can throw at me that I can't handle.