I have not spent any of the last six nights sober.

Australia may be a bad influence.

I shall update (and reply) when my hand-eye-keyboard coordination has returned to normal again. If ever.

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I have just been invited to a party.

With promises of free booze, good music, and studmuffins galore.

But mature, responsible person that I am, I declined as I have a 9.30am lecture tomorrow. And I could never forgive myself if I fell asleep in cla...

No, I cannot lie to you.

The truth is, I have nothing to wear. Nothing clean, that is. I haven't done any laundry since I arrived because quite simply, I've absolutely no idea how to use a washing machine. It's very sobering to learn that clothes do not magically appear fresh, clean, and ironed in the wardrobe after spending a night in the clothes hamper.

This is clearly becoming an issue. Evidently, I need to stop procrastinating and do something now.

*Advertises for a Washing Lady to move in*

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I’m in luck.

For the past week, Housemate P and I had been silently warring. It was a battle of wills, fierce and intense. But I prevailed, because the loser had to take out the trash.

When I first moved in on Monday, the garbage bin in the kitchen was already full. An empty Absolut bottle sat a good four inches above the brim, proclaiming itself as King of the heap. Obviously, HP would empty the bin soon, because nothing in it belonged to me.

I was wrong. A carton of chopped spinach and a Coke bottle soon joined the Absolut. Then an egg carton, a milk bottle and a greasy paper bag that used to contain pie. By Wednesday, we had to whisper in the kitchen, because anything louder would cause an avalanche of trash.

“The bin,” I whispered to HP when we bumped into each other by the fridge. “It’s rather full, isn’t it?”

“Hmm.”

“What do you think we should do about it?”

“Well,” he tossed at me challengingly. “I reckon someone should take it outside.”

“Hmm. Someone should.”

That night, the kitchen stank of the remains of someone’s vindaloo dinner. He was obviously trying to pong me into submission. Well, two could play at that game. I popped open an expired can of tuna that had been left in the cupboard and dumped it (carefully) onto the pile.

By Thursday, no one could cook in the kitchen. Or rather, HP couldn’t cook, while I couldn’t heat up a frozen pie in the oven. I was beginning to regret the tuna. But there was no way I would lose. Because the one who backed down would obviously be forced to assume the role of Janitor for the rest of the year. And if he thought that I was gonna be cleaning up after him, he was sadly, fucking mistaken.

This morning, I was awoken by someone dragging and thumping suitcases into the previously empty room next to mine. A new housemate. Curses.

About an hour later, I walked into the kitchen to find HP staring in astonishment at an empty garbage bin. He looked up as I approached, “Did you…?”

“Nope.”

We grinned at each other. We had found our Janitor.

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I had a bit of trouble getting to sleep last night. It was so quiet, too quiet. And I got lonely in that tiny, empty bed of mine.

I missed Pukeyface snoring me to sleep.

I missed cuddling up to a warm, furry body and a cold nose.

I missed sleepy wet licks on my ear.

I missed the weight of a dachshund's head on my stomach.

I missed having to wrestle the covers out from under a selfish dog.

I missed the sudden kick in my side as she chased the shadows of dreamscape birds.

I missed the way she'd always snuggle up to me even though she had so much space on her half of the bed to stretch out in.

But then I remembered how she used to fart those silent killers in bed, while still asleep, the cheeky brat. And I felt better immediately.

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I was told that I would be bored to tears in Perth. The Melburnians said so and the Sydneysiders said so. And when even the Adelaidians looked at me with pity in their eyes, I resigned myself to a year of Sudoku and Futurama videos.

But I seem to have been worried over nothing. If the past couple of days were anything to go by, Perth promises to be quite an eventful village city. In this short period of time, I’ve already managed to:

• Lock myself out of the house
  The front door is equipped with one of those secure locks – the sort that can only be opened by a coded metal tag – to keep out the plebs. Unfortunately, there’s also a trick to opening it, and I was somewhat distracted (i.e. too caught up admiring my reflection in the glass) when the lock mechanism was explained to me. It took a good half hour of running around with a threateningly full bladder before I finally found someone to let me into the house (and the loo).
  
  
• Trap myself in the computer lab
  I was exploring the campus and thought I’d try out one of the computers. The thing is, I needed to swipe a student card to get in and I didn’t have one yet. Nothing to worry about as I simply slipped in after someone else. But what I didn’t know was that I needed to swipe out as well. When I finally got up to leave, the only other person in the lab had already disappeared (inconsiderate little shit). I had to hammer on the glass window till some guy noticed me from the outside. I just hope he’s not a Psych student too.
  
  
• Set fire to my first self-cooked dinner
  How was I to know that fried steak’s so flammable? Lucky it happened in Wombat’s kitchen and not mine, since there’s a $300 fine for setting off the smoke alarm in my house. Note to self: blowing on a flaming pan only makes it worse.
  
  
• Be groped by some perv on a bicycle
  In hindsight, “Dammit, he's ugly” should probably not have been my initial reaction.

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I took my dog out for a walk. We went down to the lake and chased a few birds, with me barely hanging on to the end of the leash as she dragged me skidding through the mud. A very dirty walk, but a nice walk all the same.

On the way home, we met a Security Guard out on his rounds. He was an Indian, uncle-ish looking sort of guy. Very friendly too, as he stopped when he saw us and flashed me a smile (but not Pukeyface because really, who would smile at a mud-splattered Fat Lump?).

"Hullo!" I called out, waving a muddy hand.

"Hullo!" he called back, waving a stick.

The exchange over, we stood there in awkward silence for a bit, racking our brains for the next thing to say. He turned out to be the better conversationalist.

"Gong Hei Fatt Choy!"

Well, that was sweet of him, wishing me a Happy Chinese New Year in my mother tongue. So I thanked him in the same. And that must have triggered something, because suddenly, he rattled off a longer stream of Cantonese.

I was lost - I couldn't understand a word of it. And sad to say, it was because his Cantonese was so much more advanced than mine. So I did the only stupid logical thing to do.

I nodded encouragingly.

And so it went on for a good ten minutes. He said something totally incomprehensible, I did my best to look like I understood and made sounds of agreement. Back and forth, back and forth. He was starting to make me feel small and this annoyed me.

"Feh!" I mentally snarled. "You're not the only multilingual one here!"

Then I suddenly noticed a lull in the (one-sided) conversation. I dragged my attention back to the Security Guard who was looking at me patiently. He was obviously awaiting some sort of reply.

Hah! This was my chance to impress him with my knowledge of Hindi! I quickly ran through my repertoire of Hindi phrases.

"Aloo Gobi!" I blurted out. And fled.

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"Darling!" My father called out as he stepped through the front door. "I got you a going-away gift!"

I ran to fling myself into his arms. He bought it! After weeks of wheedling and Daddy-pleeeeeeeeease!ing, he finally bought my Stella McCartney Running Trail Fleece with handwarmers!

"Err, no. Not the jacket. It's something a bit more practical."

I skidded to a halt, confused. WHAT COULD POSSIBLY BE MORE PRACTICAL THAN HANDWARMERS?!

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(Piratey) Arr, I'm back. After I finally remembered the network key to my connection.

So what have I been up to for the past week (besides collecting ang pows and gorging myself silly on Chinese New Year cookies)?

//Btw, Happy (Belated) Chinese New Year!//

I've been agonising over a lump on Pukeyface. It's not really all that big, but on a Pukeyface-sized dog, it’s worrying enough. Because it's fugly and it might be a tumour.

But mainly because it's fugly.

So it was off to the vet again. (Speaking of which, I honestly don't understand the dog. The only reason she ever gets a car ride is for a trip to the vet. And yet she constantly just about dribbles herself with sheer excitement when I open the car door for her. But I suppose allowances have to be made – after all, there can only be so much brain in that tiny a head.)

Back to the vet. Who took cell samples from the lump with a massive needle and analysed it while I entertained myself with the uber-cool weighing scale out front. Very fun things those, just like the ones at the airport’s baggage check-in counter. Though I have to say, airport personnel aren’t as nice as they used to be. When I was a kid, no one ever told me off for hopping onto a conveyer belt.

But yes, Pukeyface’s lump. Well, the vet thinks that it might not be a tumour after all. In fact, it’s most likely a Fat Lump. Which is just as disgusting as it sounds. It’s not in the least bit dangerous, but it will never disappear.

My dog will be hideous forever.

If it was just a tumour, at least I could have it surgically-removed. But the vet doesn’t advise putting her through surgery just for cosmetic reasons.

“Hah.” I muttered later. “She's not the one who has to go to sleep every night knowing that there’s a Fat Lump barely five inches away from her.” But I suppose she’s right. I’d look a real bitch if I let my dog die on an operating table just so I can sleep better.

Besides really, I love my Pukeyface, Fat Lump and all.

Just as long as the FL doesn’t grow any bigger.

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