Man cannot live on canapés and vitamins alone.

Date: 23 December.

Location: Sensory Lab coffee. Mad rush Christmas shopping.

I have so many confessions to make.

I’ve been greedy. Last Friday I drank champagne from 11am until I passed out around 2am. It was my last day at work, neatly timed to councide with the team Christmas lunch at the Langham. There was the infamous Langham buffet lunch (so many oysters, turkey and trimmings, the chocolate fountain), an open bar and a cringy dancefloor. From there we migrated west to beers at Riverland. Then I tried to Houdini it home to set up for my little Christmas party. Thankfully I had elves — Bunky and Joey — so all I really had to do was flutter around like a tipsy Mrs Claus. Oh, and lug the ice from the local petrol station: FYI, 15kg of ice is a really unpleasant thing to lug up Punt Rd without the help of a single reigndeer.

Friday night was a Christmassy success. My apartment is tiny but nothing fills me with more joy than filling it with excellent people (feeling festive on my home-infused Plum Pudding and Candycane vodkas).

I’ve been proud. Come Saturday morning, before I could face the sticky, crumby mess outside of my bedroom, I dug my SLR camera out from under my pillow (where I’d curiously decided to leave it the night before) and downloaded all of the pretty photos of my pretty friends from the night before. A couple of clicks later they were on Facebook, freshly tagged and accompanied by witty captions. I’m not a big FB-er any more. I don’t think it’s particularly fun or energising. That said, I uploaded this album, knowing full well that people I hadn’t invited would see it. Why?

I’ve been slothful. House clean at last I sat down. And promptly fell asleep, awaking just in time to drag myself into a shower, pick a summery house-party appropriate play suit and hotfoot it to the Twin’s for pre-gaming. And dinner. This napful behaviour was to be repeated on Sunday. And Monday.

And Tuesday.

I’ve been gluttonous. I’d spent Saturday morning ‘grazing’ as I cleaned the party-wrecked house and, as a result, had breakfasted on miniature plum puddings with caramel popcorn, lunched on cold sausage rolls with Lindt balls and sustained myself between meals with handfuls of Doritos and thick wedges of cheese. Look, it wasn’t pretty. It got worse.

That night the girls — The Twin and her housemates — and I smugly noted how sensible we were as we chowed down on pizza before drinking. “We must be grown ups: we can afford to eat before we go out!” “And we actually do it!” Yeah, real grown up: an hour later we were singing Christmas carols through the streets of Richmond on our way to the boys’ house party where the only light on in the house was a sad blue bulb dangling in the kitchen, the decor comprised posters of 80s AFL players wearing furry moustache stickers and Sean Paul / Mariah Carey both featured heavily on the playlist for the back courtyard dance floor.

I’ve felt envious. Sunday afternoon brought a sunny scorcher of a day and Legally Blonde’s farewell drinks at PA’s. With precious little sympathy for all of those who had to work the following day, we consumed far too much rosé. She, like me, is moving to London in coming weeks. Unlike me, she’s determined to find a London ‘family’ to live with a motley gang of professional housemates to fill any threats of loneliness and vanquish homesickness. I wish I had the bravery to do the same! I love my own company far too much for communal spaces though I certainly see the appeal of a guaranteed set of friends and automatic local pub trivia team. (Also, I’m secretly and selfishly terrified that she’ll thrive in London and that I won’t.) Also present at PA’s was the image if perfection, tall blonde, married a law firm partner, happy glowy 8.5-month pregnant lawyer friend, Poodle. (“Omigosh that’s such a pretty maternity dress on you!” “Ohh, it’s just Willow! Still fits.”) Paint me a little green.

I’ve felt lustful. In Sunday Forbes turned up unexpectedly at PA’s.

I’ve even felt wrathful. Slow-walking Christmas shoppers fill me with rage.

No amount of yoga and green juice can absolve me, can it?




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