I came home after another stinking day pathology and realize, a little hazily, that Hiroshima's shoes are missing. Slightly carsick after peering down a microscope which was driven by someone else for five hours, I think it odd, but figure that perhaps she has packed them in her room. Hiroshima did not ascend to the giddy heights of being Slinky's Best Housemate Ever for nothing, and I just thought she had gone on a massive cleaning spree and she had moved them for more efficient vacuuming.

I drag myself into the shower and try and wash out the deadly pain of pathology from my head, which is why I don't immediately notice that Hiroshima's shampoo and conditioner are missing. When I do, I thought that perhaps she has gone to spend the night with her friend-with-benefits. But this, together with the missing shoes, fills me with a sense of disquiet akin to when you're strapped into the roller coaster and it starts moving just when you remember you're scared of heights.

I step out of the shower, and that's when I notice that everything of hers is gone from the bathroom. No towel, no cup, no toothbrush or toothpaste, no facial foam, nothing. I start to panic a bit, but tell myself that there must be a perfectly reasonable explanation for it, even as an obscure sense of guilt creeps up on me. I tell myself that I will check her room, and if her door is locked, she's fine, it's all there, and I haven't somehow unknowingly driven her away.

I put my hand on the doorknob and expect it find resistance, but it opens easily and I stand at the threshold of her room and gape.

It's completely empty. Everything's gone. It was like she was never there.

The quilt has been folded neatly and put away. Her hangers are all gone. The closets are empty. The bed has been stripped, the carpets vacuumed. I open drawers. All empty. I run out into the kitchen, feeling oddly frightened. Her side of the pantry is completely empty. The fridge has been cleared of her stuff. I open kitchen drawers. Her chopsticks are gone.

I run around the house for a while in a mindless panic.

She's gone.

Her phone doesn't ring. There is no response to SMS. I feel like I've been dropped into the Twilight Zone.

I remember the last time I saw her, two nights ago, when she came home and I happened to be out of my room, and I said "Hello!" and she staggered a little and said, "OoooOOooohhh HALLOOOOOO Sleeeeeenkeeeee!! Eeehhhh I very sorry but I cannot talk now. I dreeenk too much with Friend!" and then promptly staggered to her room and disappeared.

I didn't get to say goodbye.

I haven't been seeing much of her this year. I've been leaving for rotations she wakes up, and she's out when I come back, and when she comes back, I'm in my room, studying, because it's too cold to be outside. I've been an absent housemate. An maybe I wasn't there for her enough.

And I'm going to miss her.

Three dental visits in one week makes me deeply regret every single Lucky Charm marshmallow, doughnut, Ben & Jerry's pint tub of Cherry Garcia and Slurpee I've ever had as a kid. Sweet Jesus have mercy.

I was never one of those kids who had a phobia of going to the dentist. I didn't like it, obviously, because you need to be a special sort of masochist to enjoy a trip to the ivory snatchers. But I was never terrified of it, especially since the introduction of topical anaesthetics (all hail the gods of lignocaine). I even sort of like my dentist, who will happily explain complicated concepts in exacting detail and who has a very liberal hand with the lignocaine. I just found it fairly disgusting that someone whose name I didn't even know would be allowed to poke latex-covered fingers into my mouth. Does anyone else find the sexual parallels unsettling? Dentists must all be a little fucked in the head.

But an unfinished root canal 2 years ago (long story) resulted in intolerable pain and a systemic fever two months ago that resulted in chills so bad that I couldn't stand up. I broke into the worst cold sweats and when I could stand again, crawled around like a cretin trying to change the sheets because they were grossing me out. Desperate, I hauled ass to the first dentist I could score an appointment with, which turned out to be a bloody waste of time because after cleaning out the pulp chamber and a short course of antibiotics, the pain came back less than a week later. Thank god, after another course of medication which I dosed from my own private stash, it resolved. I might as well have wiped my ass with the hundred bucks I paid them and then set fire to it for all he good they did.

So since I was back in town, I thought I'd get myself fixed up once and for all. This meant two and half hours of chronic dry mouth while my dentist did some seriously uncomfortable things that looked like very refined instruments of torture. It hurt less than expected, all points considered. I nearly fell asleep, which shows how little it hurt. My last appointment is scheduled for this Saturday.

Unfortunately, after the local anaesthetic had worn off, pain started a party in my mandible, and by Monday, the tooth was throbbing in my gum in time with my pulse. Miserable, severely mosquito-bitten and almost giving in to the urge to steal hippo painkillers from the pharmacy, I called my dentists and asked if this was normal. Wait til Wednesday, they told me, and if the pain doesn't subside, come in.

I made the reluctant trek back to the dentist (although if I'm honest, I actually relished the excuse to miss a day of my practical, even if it meant extensive drilling and invasive procedures being performed unpleasantly close to nerves. This shows exactly how little I'm enjoying this bastard practical.). There, I submitted to having the filling on Saturday drilled and removed and the root canals re-opened. I was relaxed and a little sleepy, and I wasn't paying attention as the dentist put a tiny little file down one root canal and very gently started twiddling it. He'd done it before and I didn't feel a thing.

Which is why I wasn't prepared for the massive bolt of agony that whipcracked through my spine and caused a reflex snap that nearly cost my dentist his index finger. Lucky for him he'd given me a bite block before he started. My expletive-infused "FuckOW!" came out as a gurgled "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" and tears of pain sprang to my eyes, which sort of diluted the death glare I gave to the perpetrator when I eventually regained voluntary motor control over my body. "There, there, it's okay," said the nurse, patting my shoulder, reminding me far too much of how I talk to my patients for my liking. It also brought to my attention the fact that I was breathing like I'd gone for a hard run. It reminded a little of the time I got electrocuted on a farm fence.

Just like that, my dentist lost every single scrap of trust that I had invested in him. After that, every instrument he picked up was rewarded with flinching and a suspicious glare. "Tell me if it hurts, okay?" he said encouragingly, to which I grunted, which meant (imagine snarling) You bet your ass, mister, and if you just take out this bite block, I'll SHOW you too.

Everything hurts, and I could only look mournfully at dinner tonight and feeling a sudden massive flare of sympathy for all those dogs that get dentals at our incompetant hands. In the future, I am going to stuff my patients so full of post-dental painkillers that they're going to think they're walking on two legs chasing pink kittens over fields made of Greenies.

It was STILL better than going to prac though. So there.

So I'm minding my own business when he pops up and messages me out of the blue to tell me that my new picture is driving him round the bend. I paraphrase.

So I laugh and tell him that I take that as a compliment, and he says I definitely should, because apparently, my legs are delicious and delectable and lots of other food-related sorts of yum. I tell him it makes me sound like fried chicken. "A bucket of hot thighs please. Extra sauce."

We chat a bit, then I say, hey, isn't he in a relationship or something? Because I'e been seeing him with this insanely, ridiculously beautiful woman recently, you know, the kind who likes to give women like me inferiority complexes just by standing near them. He says it's sort of headed that way, yeah, so I congratulate him because Jesus, she's hot. And he takes pains to point out that just because he's sort of seeing someone doesn't mean he can't take in the view. A male friend of mine once put it as admiring the art without necessarily having to buy it.

He thn asks me cheerfully in the next breath when I'm flying back, and when i tell him, he tells me to call him the minute I land, because he might be around!

I told this to the Raj, and her response was, "Wait, so you're his official booty call?"
I said, "Well, in that country, maybe."

Seriously, the man is such a cheerfully abashed slut that somehow I can't hold it against him.

(Doesn't mean I'm going to call him.)

Hachar SMSes me excitedly recently, saying "GOSS!! Cockrane loss his job, and is getting evicted!" I could practically smell the adrenalin rush.

I was less excited because I had no idea who Cockrane was and was also distracted by the fact that Hachar, usually blessed with an impeccable command of the English language, had let his phone get away with spelling "lost" and "loss", and hence failed to grasp the full import of his text message.

I message him back, telling him that I have no clue who Cockrane is, and why are we getting excited again?

Then I find out that Hachar means Captain Starlight.

It totally fucking makes my WEEK.

So.

There's a deadline that's been at the back of my head since that email a while ago.

I don't actually know the actual date on which the deadline falls. I just know that it will happen, and possibly sooner than I thought it would. It's been.... troubling.

A few days ago, the Kissy pops up unexpectedly on gmail to have a quick chat, and suddenly, just like that, the possible deadline moves closer.

No, I don't want to talk about it. I just needed to say it was there.

Went dancing with the pet mope to kick off the long weekend. Who should we see as we pull into the parking lot but Captain Starlight zipping off on the Vespa? With the girl he's now fucking in tow.

Friends, I realize, are the people who offer to hurt the people who hurt you.

Thirty minutes, two cigarettes and one stiff drink later and we are dancing with one truly beautiful boy and his drunk obnoxious friend who is ENTIRELY too grabby for my liking. Beautiful boy is jaw-droppingly, staggering gorgeous and can dance like like a god and I briefly wonder if he is a model. But no, he's a policeman, and before I can stop my traitorous mouth, I hear myself asking him if that means he has handcuffs. Sadly, he has to drag his drunk friend off after he unhooks my bra through my dress during a moment's inattention, which leads to me hitting him hard enough to double him over, which leads to him calling me a bitch with a bad attitude, and beautiful policeman has to drag friend off, apologizing profusely all the way and I am unable to explore the tantalizing possibilities of that particular conversation further.

But the real question of the night which I'm throwing out there is this - would it be really, really wrong if I went on a date with a 23-year old? Discuss.

This is a little note to myself because it seems extremely clear in light of very recent events (Captain Starlight? More like Captain Salah) that my arsehole-radar, if not actually broken, is at least prone to malfunctioning at inconvenient times. Never let it be said that I don’t learn lessons taught by history.

1. Don’t date them if they’re insanely hot. There are very few straight men who are very hot and they tend to know what effect they have on women and use it to their nefarious advantage. Plus, the bastard-radar tends to malfunction in the presence of beauty, thus leading to critical errors of judgment. Like, forgetting how to speak while simultaneously thinking they’re good people. Balls.

2. If they call at the very last minute to arrange for dates? Be the John Mayer. And drop them like they’re Jessica Simpson.

3. We have standards now. Don’t hang it out for the ugly man who nevertheless thinks he is the shit. Not only will this one have problems as stated with actual very hot man, but he also suffers from delusions.

4. Any guy who requires medication to function like a normal human being = instant fail. Chances are, the medication can only go so far and normal human being status is not fully achieved.

5. Does not have friends. This is a warning sign, like a relationship Batsignal telling your brain’s Batman to kick some mental bastard ass before the stupid lizard part of it can latch on and stun the rest of your brain into thinking it’s happy. Stupid, stupid lizard brain. If people dowan to fren him, there’s usually a reason for that.

6. He says “I’ve never done this before!” while very expertly coaxing dress off shoulders. Um, yes. This one may not actually be a total loss, so long as you’re not expecting anything beyond a roll in the hay.

7. Attached. (Duh)

9. If his entire range of interest or hobbies extends only so far as to list gaming, basketball and reading, no. This will be a person who will be completely unable to wander blissfully around a foreign country without clutching onto a map, spare bottles of water, disinfectant wipes and money stuffed in his socks in case the unfriendly natives decide to mug him. This person will never go white-water rafting with you.

10. If he seems too good to be true, he probably is.

So I've been busy doing things like making new friends, going to abbattoirs, sewing, fending off men who want to fly interstate to see me and alternating between thinking about Captain Starlight nekkid, getting all drooly at the mouth and then wanting to brain him (I'm now firmly in the brain-ing camp despite still getting raging moments of pure lust, so I would consider myself well on the path to recovery.)

One of the best things I've been doing recently is having chats with the cousin, who has convinced me to get my writing ass in gear after years and years of letting my fiction muscle atrophy. I found some of my old writing from back when I was 14 and shockingly, some of it is good. Reading them brought back memories of being hunched over the computer for hours writing out the stories that spooled out like thread, a direct circuit from brain to fingers. I miss that feeling of being completely and utterly consumed by the fantastical. I think I've been too bogged down by real life.

About the title of this post: I just thought I should share the blondest moment I've had in a week filled with extremely blond moments (how blond has this week been, you ask? Put it this way - a blond laughed at me. That's how blond.)

On Thursday, I was present at a truly exhausting talk on animal slaughtering which lasted two hours, given by a man equally famous for his long-windedness as he is for his niceness. (His record to-date is digressing off his main topic to tell completely unrelated stories no less than 37 times in 2 hours. )I've had an exhausting week where my day starts before 7 am and I end after 9pm. Slinky is not a happy kitty.

So there I am walking with two friends, crazed from lack of sleep and dreading the the group work I need to do (title of my blog? Accurate.) and I bitch, "Oh my god. That was terrible. [Lecturer's name] really likes to go on and on and -" I startle when my friend gives me horrified deer eyes. Because of course, he is RIGHT BEHIND ME.

Slinky, people person. Sigh.

So I had a tramuatic laundry day yesterday. Not only did I accidentally leave dressmaking pins in the ridiculously large clinic coat we had to buy (sourced by our allegedly corrupt year representative who, according to rumour, took gratuities from the company and thus ensured that only men's coats were available, never mind that 90% of the year is female. My coat could fit two Slinkys, easy.) which led to the pins ripping up my favorite washable ballet shoes, but thanks to the record-breaking heatwave and intensely dry weather I had a couple of massive nosebleeds down the front of my shirt (hey, my nose feels funn..... oh shit).

To top it off, some very cute red knickers ran in the wash and tie-dyed the heck out of a very cute white pair of lace french-cut knickers. Which means I've got to get rid of both. Which means two less cute knickers for me. No that it matters since nobody's going to see them anyway since I'm going to DIE ALONE.

So I'm back where I started, with the taste of ash coating the inside of my mouth like a carcinogenic old friend and a vague desire to floor the accelerator.

The next time I see Cupid, I'm going to shoot down his chubby flying ass. With a missile.

I meet the Italian hydrogeologist for drinks and stand-up on Friday night. I arrive in the city on time, but a concurrent football game, bad signposting, a few wrong turns and a place with no visible doors which utterly baffles me leaves me an hour late, and by the time I arrive, I have a sore throat from screaming at motorists, cussing out the urban planning, the ten minute wait at one important traffic light, the train that nearly squished me and the utter lack of parking anywhere. I am so high-strung that I gulp down an entire glass of white wine without inappropriate giggling, declarations of love or attempting to blend in with beetroots, officially a world first.

The Italian is lovely, with a runner's lean, rangy build, but I am thinking of Captain Starlight and I am puzzled how someone quite as interesting as the Italian can be simultaneously so dull. You'd think that someone who’s cycled across America solo and chases tornadoes for fun would be more exciting. But, no. Also, he peers at me rather like a pelican I once saw at the zoo. After half a glass of wine, I'm actually quite pleased about being late.

The first comedian was terrible. After one truly terrible attempt at a funny story which fell flatter than Fatarse's singing, some wag in the audience played the sound of crickets chirping. That got a bigger laugh than anything the poor guy had said so far. It was only when he started making bitter, self-deprecating jokes about how awful he was ("What, no cricket sounds? I’m so bad even Cricket Guy's holding back out of pity?") that the audience truly started laughing. No wonder all of them were drunk as skunks.

Hachar calls me repeatedly during the truly inspired act by the third comedian, a balding sulking goth vampire in his 40's,and eventually, I abandon the Italian gleefully to go dancing with Hachar at the local gay hangout, where there are too many straight couples but a sufficient number of skinny languid boys and lipstick lesbians to keep things interesting. We gyrate and shimmy and slinky til sweat sheens our skin and we work out the week. Fabulous.

I have an appointment with a surgical specialist the next morning, where I get some excellent career advice and clearer direction.

The more I think about it, the more I realize: I'm not coming back.

I go on an emergency grocery run then set about sewing a new bikini based on fabric that I had bought on a whim with the intention of test-driving it before tomorrow. Somehow, I didn't think it would make the right impression if I flashed half of Freo my boobs.

Nutmeg and Fish arrive in a tumble of badly-fitting bermudas, T-shirts and flip-flops while I'm still frantically pinning it, having not sewn a single stitch. Drat. We set off to everyone's favorite beach and waited fruitlessly for the pet mope to show, which she didn't, for ages. I am intensely grumpy but was prepared to be sympathetic right until she tells me over the phone “"The staff at Tiffany’s are SO incompetent." Poof. Sympathy points disappear like Oprah's waistline. But a swim in the bracing surf cures the crankiness and by the sun sets, it feels like the perfect day.

The pet mope and I have dinner together, and over an entire chicken shared between us, I realize that we've not hung out together outside of school for months. We talk about our favorite subject for ages (medicine), a passion I can share with only a few people. And sitting in the cold, watching her recount a story about dermatology, I realized with a start just how much I'd miss her when we graduate. It's funny when you overlook what's right in front of you.

"So what's the story between you and Captain Starlight?” she asked me.
And instead of saying "Nothing," like I usually do, I tell her the truth. She's the first person to hear it.

She asks about Fatarse. And I tell her. Not everything, because I don't think I could ever bear repeat everything to anyone who wasn't there ever again. But enough. And we share horror stories of what we put up with in the name of love. ("He bought me flowers from a funeral home!" "He staked out my house!")

If you can seal a friendship, I suppose that night did it.

We stay up til 2 am and then end the night reluctantly, and only because we're exhausted and we can’t string sentences together any more. We promise to catch up again soon. And hey, I guess I do have girlfriends here after all.

I give up.

I can't fight it any more, no matter how much my little Frankenstein heart, patched together with spit and string after the shredder of the breakup last year would like to deny it.

I am MAD for Captain Starlight.

I didn't want to to be. So I lied to myself rather convincingly. I even managed to convince myself over the last two months that he and I were done, and I would go on a virtuous man-break. Pat self on back. No more beautiful, sexy, frustrating, desirable, incapacitating, aggravating men.

Truth is, I met him when I wasn't ready to and tangled myself up because I was scared shitless. I'm amazed he didn't run for it while I quietly imploded emotionally in numerous small, gory ways, but I suppose it's hard to scare a man who's used to the threat of imminent death. It's ridiculous, I told myself. He's going away, and so am I. He’s not a settler, and right now, neither am I. He's happy being single. And so am I.

But that's all lies because really, it's fear of lack of reciprocity. Slinky's had enough rejection cake, thank you, she doesn't want seconds. Here's your fucking plate back, Love, you bitch.

That lasted right until the day when he realized that I was back and asked me out for brunch. And my self-righteous resolution crumbled like old feta. And after that day, the realization came and smacked me hard on he back of the head like the Emotional 2x4 of Merciless Truth.

Once you know, what can you do but give in?

I show up at Captain Starlight's doorstep and he is dragging out the Vespa, looking insanely, mindboggling sexy in a pectoral-hugging black T-shirt and plaid fitted bermudas. Christ, he looks to me like a walking stick of liver treats does to a starving Golden Retriever.

Look at you, he says, taking in the little skirt, the red open-toe pumps with warm, appraising eyes. I surreptitiously wipe drool from my lips and hope he didn't notice.

I'm kidnapping you to the beach, he tells me.
Okay, I say happily. I'm pretty sure that he could have told me that he was taking me to Mongolia on the back of his donkey and gotten pretty much the same response.

I lose my sunglasses, my phone, my wallet and pretty much all my willpower on that scooter ride. I only get two of those things back. The latter is not one of them. The wind whips tears from my eyes and I lose track of the conversation because I'm worrying about my eyeliner turnin me into Taropanda. I sit with my back really straight so that I wouldn't give into the temptation to lean into his back.

I intended to leave after brunch (panfried mushrooms with feta nd roasted hasselback potatoes, gorgeous. But still not as edifying as his grey eyes, yum.). But I digress. Witness Slinky transmute from strong independent woman into slobbering idiot!
Come in, he said
Okay, I said.

I intended to leave after the first episode of The Unit.
Want tea? he asked, bringing out the most gorgeous little glass teapot.
Okay.

I intended to leave after the third episode of The Unit.
Let's scoot over to the markets and grab some Japanese. The light glows on his skin.
Okay.

As we're watching Dennis Haysbert kick the shit out of a door, Captain Starlight pipes up and says in a pleased sort of way. That's my gun!

I give him a look. You do realize that's like me watching an episode of E.R. and saying, Hey, that's my scalpel, right?

Japanese turns into movie, and at the cinema, he heads over to the counter and as we check out screening times, he attempts to finagle a poster of The Hurt Locker.That's what I do, he said to the attendant, in an attempt at finagling.

I feel my eyebrows shoot up my forehead like surprised animals, but I don't say anything. He still knows I did it though, because as we walk out later, he says, wow, I was kind of a tool in there, wasn't I? That's what I do? he says, shaking his head.

I laugh at him.

Two guys drive past in their souped-up Camaro and stare at us as we stand at the corner, waiting for the lights to change.

Stop checking her out, he says, half-joking. I could blow up your car. I know how.
Yes, I tease him. Because that's what you do.
Okay, you have to never mention that again, he says, profoundly sheepish.

We watch The Road, and we're horribly depressed after that.
I've got the perfect solution, he says. The Unit snaps onto screen.
Ooooo. Pause. Can you take off your shirt while we watch that?
No.
Damn.

We run through the entire season and we’re yawning but not ready for bed.
Let me show you TED.
Okay. Pause. Can you take off your shirt now?
No, he says again, half amused, half-exasperated.
Damn.

Are you spending the night? he asks me.
This is the only point in the entire day where some semblance of self-control asserts itself, and I manage to squeak no! before scuttling back to my car before my traitorous tongue can overtake my willpower. He walks me back to the car, wraps his arms around me and kisses me goodbye. If I wasn't right at my car, I would have been undone by that kiss. I would have melted into a little puddle of oversexed hormones and mush at his feet.

He needed to study that day. So did I. Neither of us did a damned bit of it.

While drinking mojitos with Hachar and Auntie N along the cappucino strip, I spy a rather gorgeous waiter with blue eyes and just the right amount of scruff and point him out to them. Yum.

Hachar: "Pick him up!"
Slinky: "What? No!" I'm a coward. I like men to come to me so I can reject them. It's not nearly as much fun for me the other way around.
Hachar: “"Just do it!:"
Slinky; "No! What on earth would I say?"
Hachar: "It's easy! Just say: "He's gay, I'm straight, which one of us do you want?"

I am facing an entire week of touchy-feely rubbish. I've slogged through about 6 weeks of full-on clinical practicals where I've held broken legs together for two hours, retracted abdomens for 3 hours, you'd think I'd be grateful for the break. But puh-leese, sitting in a darkened lecture theatre and made to discuss the importance of cultural differences in practice? Told about the importance of using 'empathic language' with our clients? God. Every time that bloody co-ordinator who is doubtless childless, single and hating it comes around with her gooey smile, her frumpy outfits and her goody-goody smile, I want to punch her in the ovaries.

Today, I came and was made to do a conflict resolution personality type test (apparently, my collaborative and avoidance tendencies are subnormal, but my competitive instincts were off the charts. Tell me something I didn't know.) That was when we all decided to bunk off for the rest of the day and we hit the beach.

Oh god. The more I stay here, the more I appreciate this city. And there's nothing like the beach in summer. Brilliant pure light that promises 1 in 4 of us skin cancer, sand that would fit through a sieve and water that's clear and pure and that perfectly tantalizing shade of aquamarine that dares you in, no matter what the weather.

We stripped off, braved the screaming winds that caused your footprints to disappear in a heartbeat and dived into the massive breakers that stormed the shore. The water was warm, the wind was icy, and we rode some killer waves and got left gasping and half-drowned on shore like bizarre marine wreckage. Tired out, we snarfed some fish and chips and blinked our sleepy way home.

Now this is what student life should be about.

Libraries tome are happy places. For a dorky bibliophile like me, going to the library is an absolute smorgasbord of riches. I'd rather give up meat forever than books (and that's really saying something, because the one time I tried giving up meat, I could feel my cells screaming in agony for some salty animal flesh, 24-7.) Needless to say, library time is sacrosanct.

One day last week after meeting up with RunsInStilletoes and her new boyfriend for breakfast then lunch with p.w., I braved the madding crowds in my neighbourhood town centre and amble blissfully into the library. On hindsight, perhaps I shouldn't have been wearing a dress that cut halfway down my sternum, but I was coming from town, and my new policy vis-à-vis relationships is that since I'm not in one, I should at least make other people wish they weren't too.

I plant myself down on a bench with some high-minded literature ("Ange and Johnny's Steamy Sex Scenes! Johnny's Girlfriend Worried!") and absorb myself happily in the Deppster's perfect cheekbones. I moved a few intellectual steps up to Vogue when a voice interrupts me.

"Excuse me, I think the people at the library reception want to talk to you about some admin."

I tear myself away from the world of taffeta and tulle and frown at the guy who's standing in front of me. He's tall-ish and wearing spectacles and has that Singaporean Everyman face. For a second I think he's library IT. "What?" I demand a bit irritably. I loathe being interrupted when reading. Even if it's reading about how to match pencil skirts. "What admin thing?"

"Um, I’m not sure. But they want to speak to you."

I stare at him in not-particularly-friendly-fashion. Library time is ME time and I've been precious little of it this trip back. And this sounded off. "Are you sure they want to talk to me? Do you have the right person?"

I think the narrowed eyes unnerved him a bit, because he dithered a bit before throwing in the towel.

"All right, I confess, I just wanted to get you away from the wall so I could talk to you."

Gawd. I couldn't help but snark. "And that's the best you could come up with?"

He looked so abashed and nervous that I couldn't help but feel a little bad. Stupid fatarse. Stupid heartbreak has made me soft about inflicting righteous hurt on people. And so (argh the embarrassment I feel confessing this) I relented. Me! Relenting! Unacceptable! That’s like Gordon Ramsay saying "Oh, nice try!" when someone's souffle fails to rise.

I ended up giving him a chance, just in case he was just horribly nervous and wasn't actually a ninny.

He told me he was an 'actor’, to which I immediately said, "Oh, really? Stage or TV?" He told me he did stage work with a perfectly sincere expression. "So do you know Miss J?" I asked him. He looked blank, an expression which I was going to become rapidly familiar with over the next ten minutes. I named productions Miss J's done. Same godlfish stare. So I decided I was going about this the wrong way and asked him what productions he'd been in.

"Um.. I mainly do plays for schools."

Cue sound of crickets chirping.

To my massive credit, even though the Eyebrow of Derision twitched madly, it did not rise. Boy, did it want to though.

The conversation went on with him talking about, at one point, the importance of context and how characterization alone in novels was insufficient to provide a good reading experience. My eyes were beginning to get a telltale glaze so in an effort to divert him from his intense dissection of the overlay of situational significance in the American novel, I asked him what else he did besides (muffled snigger) school plays.

"Oh, I do a form of Filipino martial arts. I actually act to fund my passion for martial arts. I want to do it full-time as some point."

He paused then, perhaps hoping that I would make some sort of admiring comment about how unique and macho that was. Sadly, having been kissing-close to men who collected knives and swords and who did martial arts in various forms, hearing yet another one proudly proclaim his alleged virility by way of a stylized form of ritual fight in an attempt to bolster insecurities about self-image really doesn't impress me. So I just went "Oh." Politely. But with little interest.

Perhaps because he failed to elicit the female admiration he was looking for, he elaborated. "Yes, I used to do muay thai (egad, the most recently trendy and clichéd way to establish your macho credentials) but I wanted something which was more real-world offensive." Oh give me a break. Mental eye-rolling, but again, the Eyebrow of Derision did not twitch skywards.

"So where do you take these classes?" I ask him, after he natters on about him individual coaching, as it suddenly occurs to me how freaky it would be if him and Fatarse actually knew each other. He mistakes my suddenly interrogative tone as interest and brightens.

"At my void deck," he replied.

This time the Eyebrow of Derision didn't just rise, it SHOT up the horrified plane of my forehead like it had been fired from a cannon “The..void...deck," I repeated slowly, jut to make sure.

"Yes, because this way he saves on having a shopfront," he nodded sagely. And then reveals that he was at the library, not for the pleasure of reading, but because he wanted somewhere quiet where he could 'visualize his moves'.

I didn't actually manage to stifle the laughter this time. It flew out of my throat like confetti at a tickertape parade.

It was most definitely at this point where I stopped being nice.

"So, you said you wanted to take your ‘martial arts’ (he totally missed the verbal quote marks I placed around the words) full time. How do you plan to do that?"

"Well, I basically want to travel and coach martial arts at the same time."

"Uh huh. And where do you plan to go?"

"Um...I'm not sure yet. Maybe the Philippines."

"And how do you plan to fund it? Because it’s not like you're working in a real job right now." Zing! I don't need a scalpel to do castration.

"Um...I dunno." I arch another eyebrow at him and throw in some narrowed eye for good measure and he ties to recover with a falsely-casual, "I'm not really much of a planner, I'm more of a take-it-as-it-comes sort of guy."

"So, you’re 31 and basically not sure what you want to do or how to go about achieving what you want."

"Umm....."
I let the silence stretch out like embarrassment taffy. He returns my faux-amiable dead-on fish stare with a slightly bewildered look, a bit like when The Fuzzy stares at the TV and wonders why there are funny voices coming out from it.

"You know, this is kind of the point where you pick up the conversational ball and try and run with it."

More fearful silence.

"Nothing? Hunh. Do I make you nervous?"

"...yes."

Needless to say, he did not get my number.

Proportion of body completely soaked by sudden manifestation of monsoon weather en route to favorite bar: 50%

Number of people I had to wade through en route to favorite bar: 5 million (well it feels like it! My god, don’t people have to work?? There are too dammed many people in this country.)

Number of tables left when I arrived: 0. Argh, argh, argh. I may have actually wailed when they told me as my dress dripped on their carpet. Maitre’d took pity on me and found me a table to share. .Had to perch uncomfortably on bar stool and share a table with two girls who kept giving me pitying looks and pronounced chocolate as ‘chorklat’ and sounded like they worked in admin. God, pity from HR, I have sunk to new lows.

Number of times I checked my watch: 28, give or take 5 gazillion.

Number of pages read while I waited: God bless the public library- 43 (I read faster than that, but I suffered from a Pavlovian peering at the entrance hopefully every time someone walked in).

Number of martinis abandoned: 1. Damnit.

Pity discount given b waitstaff who wrongly thought I got stood up by a date? Yes.

Number of awesome sandwiches consumed: 0.

Number of times I ducked into a public toilet to indulge in a small (massive) amount of self-pity: 1

Dinner eaten: None

Level of disillusionment with being back: Total.

Schlumped on the bus, I continued the winning trend of robust self-pity by going petulantly to sleep. You wouldn't think that falling asleep could be done petulantly, but I assure you that it's possible. You simply close your eyes decisively in a squinchy sort of manner and mentally broadcast the fact that you hereby shutting off the world because it SUCKS and you are doing so by inducing unconsciousness SO THERE. Then you attempt not to dream of happy fluffy things because that really messes with the huffy vibe you're trying to project.

I'm having the worst sort of luck when it comes to catching up this trip back. Do I have something horrible caught in my teeth? Am I suffering from the social form of leprosy? People are actually leaving the country. They are crossing oceans rather than meet up with me. It’s hard not to take it personally. Even making plans with my sisters been difficult, and we live in the same house, for crying out loud.

The cumulative effect of all this has led to not inconsiderable depression re my apparent social pariah status Let’s face it: the festive season makes you lonely and a little crazy. That’s why the suicide rate spikes. The logical part of my brain knows it’s all bad timing and coincidence and it’s just that crazy time of the year where people who have actual jobs (i.e. almost everyone other than me) go all mad hamster trying to fulfill all their commitments in the nonexistent free time they have. But that stupid teenage part of my brain, the part that was responsible for my ridiculous crush on the orange haired boy (no judging!) years ago is going hell for leather in the whole "Slinky,you suck" department.

Right now my ego's just about strong enough to withstand gentle breathing, so I think I’m just going to hole up at home for a while with a tub of Ben N' Jerry's and sulk for a bit. And do exciting things like, stare into space and get drooled on by The Fuzzy.

In a hypothetical scenario, a rather nummy and extremely amusing but whorish male model sort of character flies into town for two days and makes it clear that he would love to see you, the word 'see' clearly being an euphemism for 'wild potentially illegal nookie of the sort that would make the neighbours in the next room demand a refund from the swanky hotel that they're staying." You are tempted by the offer but are mildly offended at the lack of any attempts at wining and dining and the presumption of sex on tap.

Do you: (a) reply tartly that you will be engaged in the very important task of saving lives and are therefore unavailable for his sexual gratification or (b) gleefully start picking out which lingerie you'd like to be torn away from your willing body like the floozy that you are?

Discuss!

2009 has been...difficult.

In January, I watched the last sunset extinguish itself against the horizon in a place that no longer exists. That place broke my heart every day, but I was sorry to leave it nevertheless. I left a little piece of myself there, and the memory of all of you at he barbecue and running with The Fuzzy in the field behind my moorhen paradise will longer long.

In April, I lost my love. Along with that, I lost any comprehension of how life was supposed to go on. I lost focus. I lost all common sense. I lost pride and dignity and about 10% of my body weight. I lost my appetite. I lost my faith. I lost my ability to trust. I grieved. I was in so much pain that I wanted to die only because then at least the unbelievable, relentless emotional agony would stop and I would find some peace. I picked up smoking again like I hadn't since the bad old days of overnighters in the office in pencil skirts and skyscraper heels. A pack a day of cancer sticks. It went for the next few months, my ironic lifeline to a life which seemed bleak.

I lost time.

In June, I started coming back to life.

In July, there was Morton's Model. Along with all the other things I had lost, I had apparently also lost my moral compass and any sense of inhibition. I merrily joined the rest of you immoral arseholes and found some absolution.

In July, there was also the discovery of the Rabbit (who is still running, but who has been superseded by others) and the horror of the Consolation Prize, the shock of which made me almost grateful to return to Oz.

In July, I realized that I started finding myself again.

In August, there was Captain Starlight, built in the best of Spartan tradition. I swear, that man is the finest fleshly engineering, direct from God’s garden of earthly delights. Eight-pack, gorgeous smile and thigh muscles that make me want to sink my teeth into him even when he’s just doing mundane things like, oh, I don't know, breathing. He continued the lesson that Morton’s Model had begun, that beauty had a power all of its own. He helped me heal the same way that peeling off the dead skin helps burn victims heal; painful, but ultimately effective. He also taught me that I was still in relationship withdrawal. Sorry, Starlight. Didn't mean to get my emo all over your nice clean shirt.

Also in August, I ran the City to Surf. Aside from looking like an absolute noob as I gasped my way to the finish line in the final sprint, I think I acquitted myself pretty well, considering that my arduous training in the months before had been to sit on the couch and think "Maybe I should go for a run." Was seriously proud of myself until I found out that Captain. Starlight runs those distances routinely. And completes them in half the time. And looks prettier than me doing it too. Damnit.

In October, there was LabradorBoy. Sweet, laid-back LabradorBoy, who had the finest hair I've ever run my hands through, horses, the world's best bathtub, two degrees, an album and what sounded suspiciously like a trust fund. LabradorBoy called me 'kitten', brought me lunch, had the loveliest crooked mouth and two false front teeth because the real ones had been knocked out in a pillow fight when he was a kid. He stroked my hair and told me I was adorable and amusing and made me feel safe. LabradorBoy taught me that I'm not the person I always believed I was when I was with Fatarse. And he showed me that I could be happy with someone – just not now. So thank you, LabradorBoy. Sorry about dumping you. but really, it's not you, it's me. If it's any consolation, I still miss you.

In November, I managed to guess, lie and pray my way through into my final year by passing my exams, even though I was convinced I didn't. I also found some direction. Where that will take me, I don't know. Perhaps 'direction' is misleading. 'Waving compass needle' is possibly more accurate.

And now it's a new year. It can only get better from this point on, I think. I hope. I think I'm finding myself again. And I think I like who that person is.

Happy New Year, everyone.

Cautionary Tales

Last week, I started a clinical attachment at a clinic which shall not be named. Buoyed from the raging success of the last clinical attachment (I scored 4 gig of music from the vet as part of my ongoing education, as well as possible career direction, I was feeling the love), I ambled in, blithely unaware that I was to glimpse a frightening possible future self.

She sailed in an hour and a half after actual consultation time actually began, by which time I'd gotten bored of watching nurses doing their jobs. I couldn't contribute so I spent the hour and a half alternating between reading random bits of Merck and staring at my toes. It was a bit of a relief when she finally appeared. I took her Hello Kitty scrubs as a good sign. Silly me.

"Hello," I said, poking my head into the consult room, "I'm sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if –," I never got to finish my earnest little request to watch her at consult, because without ever turning around, she waved an imperious hand in my general direction and snapped, "Go help the nurse with the barium radiograph."

I was summarily dismissed.

I spent the entire morning watching the nurse feed a rather indignant and seriously overweight Shetland a barium contrast medium than waiting for it to move through its digestive system. The dog went to sleep at some point while I waited with it in the freezing cold X-ray room. "Do you think she’ll let me watch any consults?" I asked the nurse. He looked at me with something suspiciously resembling pitying amusement, then shrugged eloquently.

I didn't watch a single consult that day.

I learned several things during that clinical practical.

First, fat people are not necessarily jolly. She was the kind of person that used her fat for evil, not good. Her bulk would have been used to maim small children in narrow supermarket aisles. I've seen dead people with more joy on their faces.

Second, just because you've been out in practice for a long time does not make you good at what you do. One memorable afternoon had her scolding the nurse for not reading up on her own surgery, getting me to retrieve the textbook on surgery from her room, and telling me to summarise the entire procedure on mammectomies in short, simple points. This left me feeling like y skullw as being turned inside out because after reading the relevant bit, I had to try and think of a way to not let on that she'd done the surgery in a...well..novel departure from the approach set out in the text, hence leading to the failure of haemostasis and subsequent difficulties in surgery necessitating her sending me to get the textbook.

Second, the stereotypes about single women pat a certain age who live with their mothers and far too many cats really dos have a basis in truth.

She had the same unhealthy love for cats that I do for German Shepherds, but it's all about context. That’s like bang Jewish and living in Germany in 1940 and living there now. She didn't like her job, didn't like her life as far as I could tell, didn’t like her mother. I had to hold the phone for her in surgery once so she could yell at her mother while still performing asepsis, then told me to hang up on her. However, I realized it is not the obsession with cats or female parents that made her the raving obese ball of sniping bitterness and unprofessionalism that she was. It was the fact that she was single and hated it.

I realized this when she was complaining to a friend during surgery that shed been invited to a party full of couples and she didn’t want to go because she didn’t want to be the only singleton present. I had a brief moment of sympathy for her. Then I nearly got a pair of Metzenbaums in my stomach and stopped feeling bad for her because I was too worried about sustaining grievous bodily harm due to the temper tantrum she was throwing (a common occurence, I was to learn).

Loneliness is corrosive. She hated her life and where she was because she was lonely and it infected everything. She was sad and angry and mean and emotional and lashed at everyone and anyone. And while I could understand it, I could not agree with it.

I left the clinical practical having learned not very much about medicine, but learning that the Raj wil agre to shoot me dead if I ever end up like that.