We were sailing on the sea of shops in London and spotted our albatross - How To Look Good Naked host Gok Wan sipping coffee in Cafe Nero.

I would have touched him for good luck but my hands were already full of shopping bags. Some silly stuff like Batman undies but also useful stuff like a non-brown dress to wear to a wedding in July. I argued with Rhiannon and Margaret that it made me look like a flower pot but caved in the end as it was half price and I couldn’t be arsed trying on more dresses.

I’m still useless with clothes. I spent all my teens and much of my twenties being very large and depressed in my uniform of jeans and billowing tops. As I got smaller I just kept buying the same thing in decreasing sizes. Then I spent much of last year writing a book in my pajamas. Now back in the real world, I always seem to look conservative and… brown. I’ve wasted so much of my youth - I want to have some fun with clothes before it’s time for rayon slacks and eau de mothball.

To kickstart this process, style muffins Rhiannon and Margaret kindly volunteered to come shopping. It was a very generous thing to do, given my tendency to give up if a garment gets more complicated than a drawstring waist. But there was just one minor hissyfit, when they made me try on a pair of patent stilettos. The salesladies kept hovering and asking WHY did I refuse the patent stilettos and I finally snapped, “BECAUSE THEY LOOK CHEAP AND SLUTTY”

“Woohoo!” Margaret crowed, “We made her break down! This is totally our Trinny and Susannah moment!”

It was a truly cracking day; one of those ones where you remember how good it is to be a lady and hang out with your fellow ladies. Thank you thank you thank you.

Rhi and Margaret cleverly pre-empted my usual shopping apathy by laying down these Rules first thing in the morning. Click the pic for a more readable version!

This entry is partially to move The Book stuff down the page and ease the pangs of self-consciousness but also a wee call for advice. Harvey, my beloved 5.5 year old iBook has finally died. Properly this time. He’s not responding to medical treatment. I gave him to Rhiannon earlier this year so she could work on computer things at home and just when she was getting her head around all the Mac keyboard shortcuts he’s snuffed it!

So now I’m determined to help her find an affordable alternative. I’m thinking PC, since Rhi’s not rolling in dough. We’d only need a very basic model - she’s not a sad nerdypants like her big sister. She just needs a place to keep her modest music collection and do a bit of casual web surfing and word processing. I’ve not been in the market for a laptop for ages and have no idea where to go. Dell? PC World? Ebay? 2nd hand? What do you guys recommend? Any ideas gratefully received :)

Hello comrades! I'm on a train bound for Englandshire. WiFi on rails, baby! Although Harvey the iBook is struggling to cope. He's five years old now, would you believe; and the E key only works if you hammer the crap out of it. His battery doesn't work anymore and there's a bit of chocolate wedged under the O key that just won't budge. But I still love the little white fella. He's a survivor.

So Rhiannon the Magnificent has scored us another two free nights in an ultra posh hotel, this time in the English countryside. Holy escape from reality, Batman!

Unfortunately I've not accquired any class since our last five-star jaunt, so once again we'll be cringing at the sight of my skanky backpack being trundled to our room on a golden trolley. But there's plenty of room in it for all the "complimentary" toiletries, you see.

As a special bonus we get half-price spa treatments! I'm having my very first full body massage, some sort of scrub thingy and my very first manicure. I hope they don't make fun of the extra finger.

Anyway, if anyone is still out there I hope you're fine and dandy and apologies for the ongoing crapness. Hopefully my brain will return around... July. And please don't hate my guts for this luxurious jaunt; for on Saturday I'll be right back to my trackies and skank neighbours.

Now that Rhi and I are old and living on the opposite side of the world from the family, we have been forced to establish our own festive traditions. I'm not sure if the Christmas Stereo Speaker Tree will catch on or if I will get off my arse and buy a proper specimen next year.

Rhi came to Scotland bearing gifts with amusing tags. This one was for Gareth.

Here is the Christmas Coffee Table as decorated by Dr G, with casually arranged clementines as per Nigella Lawson's suggestion. She also said one should drape bunches of grapes over the table like a Roman orgy, but grapes are not in season so he substituted a stunted plastic Christmas tree, which really set off the designer plastic measuring jug/gravy boat.

Upon Gareth's treasured set of Australian Animal coasters we set out plates of assorted animals and vegetables. There was enough for ten people but the three of us managed to scoff most of it.

We allowed a couple of hours to digest while the booze-laden sticky toffee pud glowered away in the oven.

The toffee sauce was slightly traumatic. I hate making toffee sauce; all that bloody stirring and stubborn sugar that refuses to dissolve.

This is the bit where I got impatient and stuck my finger into the saucepan to see if the sugar had dissolved, forgetting that molten sugar has a temperature of approximately eleventeen billion degrees.

So I spent the next few hours with my throbbing finger in a glass of ice water while Rhiannon finished the cooking. And it all turned out bloody beautiful. That oven can perform when it wants to!

In 1999, I deep-fried my hand while working in the fish and chip shop in Bathurst. My most-loathed daily task was filtering the oil in the massive fryers. On this occassion a stray chip was clogging the drain, so I poked it with a big metal stick to dislodge it. But my greasy hand slipped and plunged deep down into the gurgling fat, right up to my wrist.

I never thought I would do anything that stupid again, nor would I ever feel worse self-inflicted pain. Yet somehow that tiny fingertip meeting boiling caramel hurt more. I think I lost a fingerprint!

I was soothed by the sympathetic reactions of Rhiannon and Gareth:

Rhi - What the bloody hell did you do that for, you goon?

Gareth - BWAHAAHHAHAHA!

I am fine now. I'm still in some sort of sugar semi-coma, but that's what you get for having pudding for breakfast.

Lisbon is famous for its tiles. Apart from the sun and the port and the warm, witty people, the tiles were my favourite thing about Lisbon. Many of the buildings are covered in beautiful old ceramics, painted in all sorts of lovely patterns and colours. Why? According to this text that I copied and pasted last week from a now-forgotten website, it's because the tiles are, "durable, waterproof, and easily cleaned, providing cool interiors during Portugal's hot summers and exterior protection from the damp onslaughts of Atlantic winters."

If I had vandalistic tendencies, I'd have brought a chisel and hacked off a few favourites to take home for the Bathroom Of My Future Dream Home. But I'm no thug, so took a few photies instead.

Meanwhile back in the Very Posh Hotel, Rhi and I were taking advantage of the Very Posh Facilities. The gym was magnificent, a glass box on the roof of the hotel. So one could huff and puff while looking down to the castle and the tiles and all the poor peasants who couldn't afford to stay in a five star hotel for free.

After that it was down to the basement to the Very Posh Pool. Against my better judgement Rhi convinced me to get changed in our room, which meant getting into the lift in our swimmers and Very Posh Bathrobes. And wouldn't you know, instead of taking us straight to the pool, the lift stopped in the lobby. The doors flung open, revealing us in our fluffy white splendour to the tuxedo guy at the grand piano and all the expensive people sipping champagne.

I frantically stabbed at the Close Door button, but a Very Posh Bloke in a suit that probably cost more than my annual salary hopped in beside us.

"Good evenink ladies!"

"Hello!" I gestured at our lovely attire. "We're going to the pool."

"Yes of course!"

I hammered the B for Basement button again, but the lift started going UP!

"Noooo, lift!" I squeaked, "Pool is DOWN!"

"What's going on?" said Rhi.

"Ze lift is broken," declared the Very Posh Bloke. "And so is ze pool. It is all broken. You can't go down there. I'm so sorry ladies."

Rhi and I exchanged alarmed glances. I could tell she was having the same flashback, to that nutty German girl who'd patrolled our hostel door back in Reykjavik.

But then he grinned, revealing with huge yellow teeth, "I am just joking! Just joking!". The lift stopped at the sixth floor and off he went. Weirdo.

The pool was huge and beautifully lit, with servants I mean staff wandering around with soft towels and cocktails. Rhi and I paddled for awhile, then hit the sauna and steam room. I had a bit of a freakout in the steam room. I'd never been in one before. I never expected it to be so bloody... steamy.

After that I had a shower and washed my hair twice, because the shampoo was expensive and free. Then I slapped on three kinds of free lotions and talcum powder then slipped a few free shower caps into my bathrobe pocket, as you can never have too many of those. Then I put my swimsuit in that spinning wringer machine thing and put it in a free plastic bag, then took the lift back up to our room. Taking a lift in a bathrobe with no underwear in a five-star hotel will probably end up being the biggest thrill of my sad suburban wife life. HA!

That night we ate cheap supermarket bread rolls with ham and cheese for dinner, then realised we'd run out of toothpaste. One call to the concierge and a woman appeared at the door within two minutes, presenting me with a fancy Very Posh Hotel gift bag with a tiny tube of L'Occitane toothpaste nestled inside. I almost went stinky-breathed just so I could add it to my stash.

So all that was my brief brush with the high life.

Oh! I almost forgot to mention the Wobbly Thigh Game in the pool. You can all play along at home. All you need is a pool and a pair of wobbly thighs.

"Hey, you have to try this," said Rhi as we splashed around some sculpted businessmen. "Stand in a squat position. Now put your hands on the back of your thighs. Then just wave your legs back and forth!"

I assumed the position. "Oh lordy. I can FEEL MY FLESH FLY!"

It was a hoot. And even funnier if you put your hands on your butt. Have you ever known the ridiculous feeling of your flesh undulating underwater? Of course, if you have perfect, unmoving thighs of steel you will never know this pleasure.

Sister Rhi and I just got back from a few days in sunny Lisbon. It was our first trip together since the Baltic Saga of 2004, which I still haven't finished writing about! So instead of my usual slow, tedious manner of taking years to write about holidays in carefully crafted episodes, I am just going to blurt out some random thoughts in unruly fashion until it's time for bed.

Lack of Blokes
I left my husband at home for this trip. You wouldn't believe how many people thought this made me some sort of harlot. But I like to keep the Home Office and my mother-in-law guessing... Sham Marriage: Yes Or No?

Language
I always make an effort to learn a little of the native tongue before hitting a foreign country, with varying degrees of success. While I spent three months cramming basic Spanish, I could only muster "penis" in Icelandic and "ham" in Latvian. Not that all that Spanish did me any freaking good. I am okay at learning to read/listen/write in foreign languages but absolutely stink at saying the words out loud to actual residents of that country. Verbal conversation just ruins a perfectly good language for me. I panic and go red-faced and squeaky, rendered mute in anticipation of butchering a beautiful language. I'd been rehearsing a simple line for weeks, "Two train tickets for Valencia please," but when I finally rocked up to the ticket counter I froze, and just open and shut my mouth for ten minutes before running away.

So for this trip I was determined to learn some goddamn Portugese. My father-in-law loaned me his tapes at Christmas and the task was at the top of my New Years Resolutions list. But somehow it became the Night Before The Trip and all I knew was "bom dia" and wondered if it was more important for me to know which way to the monastery or My name is Pedro.

A conversation with a charmingly wacky taxi driver went like this:

TAXI DRIVER:  Bom dia!
SHAUNA:  Bom dia!
TD:  Do you speak any Portugese?
S:  .... I can't remember the word for no!
TD:  You don't speak any Portugese! [pounds steering wheel and pretends to cry] Why? Why!? WHY!?!

The Hotel
Rhi works for a Very Fancy Hotel in London. Each year she gets a number of complimentary nights at any Very Fancy Hotel in the world and was kind enough to use a few for our trip. When we arrived at Very Fancy Hotel Lisboa Branch, the foyer was swarming with expensive people and their matching luggage. I was pink and mildly sweaty, because I've lived in Scotland for almost three years and now consider anything above fifteen degrees to be a heatwave. I was also carrying a bulging, ancient backpack. Yet the doorman bid us welcome and opened the door with a grand flourish like we were duchesses. Then another bloke arrived and asked "Miss Rhiannon" if he could take the bags to our room. All we could do was stand there and cackle at the ridiculous sight of our grotty backpacks trundling past the expensive people on a golden trolley.

It was a hoot staying in a five-star hotel. There were slippers and spas and bread in silver baskets. They turn down your bed and give you a weather report each night:

But the egalitarian Aussie in me felt extremely uncomfortable having some bloke opening doors and pouring my tea at breakfast. I hate the idea of anyone thinking I am some pampered git, incapable of unfolding a napkin or placing my own pair of slippers perpendicular to the bed. Not that anyone could mistake me for a wealthy dame - when we caught a taxi back to the airport, I had to leave Rhiannon in the car as security while I ran to the ATM as we didn't have enough cash for the fare!

In homage to my convict roots, I nicked 7 soaps, 3 shower caps, a pen and 10 wee bottles of shampoo.

Wavelengths
I've written before how Rhi and I are ideal travel companions, always seeming to hit the same moods at the same time, e.g. knowing when it's Time To Shop or when it's Chocolate O'Clock. Best of all there's no competitive backpacker heroics. You can freely say stuff like, "How about we tell people we went inside this ancient castle and just take a photo of the outside instead?".

The Ham Man Yelled At Me
Foreign supermarkets rule. This one had a man in a Ham Corral. I don't know what else to call it. The butcher stood in the middle of a circular counter, surrounded by gorgeous hams on chopping blocks. The customers would walk up to whatever ham they fancied, and he'd hack off a few slices for them. It was fascinating because all the ham legs still had the hoofs on them. Or maybe they were faux-hoofs? I wanted to take a photo and discuss with you, except as soon as I whipped out my camera the Ham Man pointed his saw at me and screamed, "No! NO! NONONONONO!" in ever-increasing pitch. I scampered away and hid by a display of huge-yet-flavoursome strawberries. I was scared, but mostly jealous because he could say No in English but I couldn't say it in Portugese.

Man Creche
It was probably a good thing that Gareth was left behind on this trip as we did a lot of shopping. He would have been cast out with this assortment of bored yet obedient blokes, waiting outside a Zara store.

Righto chaps, it's bedtime. Boa noite!

The very first dress in the very first shop. Surely this was a Guinness Book of Bridal Records moment! But not if you're working with the Grand High Priestess of Shopping, my trusty sister Rhiannon.

Would you expect anything less from the organisational mastermind behind the Plastic Bag Luggage System and the Maximum Efficiency Grocery Run? She'd spent the last two Sundays trawling Oxford Street on what she called The Pre-Shop. She knew that my usual technique -- stomping reluctantly into a store, glancing round once, and if nothing comes dancing off the rack singing PICK ME within thirty seconds I'll just say, "Nothing to see here," then break for lunch -- would be particularly unsuitable for finding a wedding dress on a murderously crowded London Saturday.

The girl thinks of everything. She'd sussed out the perfect frock in a big department store, but tracked it down in a small boutique in the suburbs. We arrived just as it opened so there were no crowds for me to freak out about. No hovering salesladies or queues for dressing rooms or abandoned husbands cluttering up the aisles. She simply strolled in, plucked a dress from a rack and declared, "Here it is!"

Twenty minutes later we were back out on the street with my wedding dress. I ran up the block bellowing, "WOOHOO!". Rhi grinned modestly like the cat who'd swallowed a thousand canaries. She had delivered the project ahead of schedule and within budget. Two hours later I also had shoes and jewellery.

All we needed then were the Squishy Undies.

There's two types of women in this world. There's chicks who can toss any scrap of fabric over their head and waltz out onto the street without the need for serious hydraulics under the surface. Then there are those who require smoothing and shaping and lifting and flattening. Rhi walked into the Shapewear section of Marks and Spencer Lingerie department and says, "Looks like we have choice of Light Control or Firm Control."

"Are they the only levels? What if your flesh is Out of Control? We need like, HEY You're Not Going Anywhere Little Lady Control-Freak Control."

I picked up the dubiously named Variable Modulus Body, a garment so hideous and smothering that it made Bridget Jones' mumsy knickers look like the tiniest whisper of a thong. I didn't really look at it closely before putting it on, I assumed you just stepped into it like a swimsuit. But things got dicey around mid-thigh when I couldn't pull the bra bit up any higher. My knees were fused together by the crippling power of lycra. All I could do was sort of helplessly slide to the floor. I poked my head beneath the curtain and bleated, "Rhiannon. Please. Help!"

It was such a pretty picture. I was bent over, hands braced against the wall, Rhiannon positioned behind me trying to haul the fabric over my hips, me wheezing away, "It won't FIT! It's just too TIGHT!" and Rhiannon huffing and puffing, "Just stay STILL!"

Finally it was on. All was well. I tried it on with the wedding frock, everything looked under control. Now all I had to do was get the damn thing off.

"Okay, I'm going to turn around while you undress," said Rhi. "Don't worry, I won't look."

"Good, good."

Five minutes pass.

"Ummm, Rhiannon I think I might need you to turn around."

"Jesus christ!"

My arms were over my head, pinned to my ears by the evil forces of lycra. My fingers were turning purple from lack of circulation. One underwire was still holding a boob while the other provided firm support for my chin. It took ten minutes of grunting and groaning to remove it, and only afterwards did I discovered that the crotch has little snaps on it that you're supposed to undo first, then put the garment on over your head! Instead of trying to wrestle it over your prime-for-childbearing hips!

Aside from that, it was a great weekend. Tonight we said our goodbyes as I headed for Heathrow. The two of us suddenly started bawling like babies, really sobbing. We said it was because weddings bring out the emotions. But it's possible she was crying from the sheer trauma of seeing me tangled up in a lycra bodysuit. And perhaps I was crying coz instead of Wedding Night Action™, I will be too busy having the damn thing surgically removed.

Rhiannon was treated to High Tea with The Four Great Aunts on her recent visit to Australia. They're still funny and fiesty and smell like roses. They gave their Great Niece the red carpet treatment, cooking up a feast of scones with jam and cream, fruit cake, sponge cake, Anzac biscuits and a genteel plate of sandwiches with the crusts cut off. There was even a distant cousin aged eight or nine who recited two bush ballads then belted out the National Anthem before one of The Aunts told him kindly, "Righto, that'll do."

After the floorshow the conversation inevitably turned to the Royal Family. The Aunts are all staunch monarchists, and when we told them two years ago we were off to the UK their first words were, "You MUST visit The Queen!". So naturally the opening question to Rhiannon at High Tea was, "Did you see her?"

"As a matter of fact, we did."

"Oh marvellous! Did you see her Christmas Message the other night?"

"Sadly no!"

"Oh you really missed out. Gee her hair looked beautiful! The way she turns it up at the ends like that! How does she do it? I wish mine would do that."

The Aunts all clucked in agreement.

"She's always had that beautiful hair. That silvery colour. Remember her hair on her Royal Visit to our town all those years ago?"

"Oh yes, she was wearing a purple frock. Gee I like her in purple."

"She looks marvellous in purple, I wish she'd wear it more often."

"When she came out of our church, I remember thinking, gee she has the most beautiful complexion."

"And she still does! I suppose she doesn't get much sun over there."

"Oh yes." The Aunts all patted their cheeks with their fingertips to emphasise the sheer beauty of the Royal epidermis.

"Rhiannon, I hear you also saw Our Princess Mary in Copenhagen?"

"Yes we did! And we saw her wedding dress in the palace too."

"Marvellous! And hasn't she done well over there in Denmark!"

More murmurs of agreement. "Oh yes, she's settled in so nicely!"

"Yes, yes."

"But what about Prince Harry? Gee they give him a hard time..."

Rhiannon has left me!

The traitorous wench found a great job with a work permit so she's moving to London.

We keep telling people that it feels like a divorce. I've seen the rolling eyes, I know they think we're being melodramatic. But you have to understand I'll no longer be near someone who finishes my sentences, instinctively knows when to buy chocolate on the way home, and is my best friend.

Growing up we weren't as close, but there was always an unspoken solidarity. We would exchange bemused glances and raise eyebrows as our various parents threw tantrums and houseplants and did crazy things. We went our separate ways for university, but finally in 2000 we both ended up in Canberra.

The Mothership phoned the day after we moved in together. Rhi was downstairs and I was perched on my bed with the extension. It was the usual Mothership fodder -- local gossip, recaps of Oprah episodes, tales of wayward students that she had to Skin Alive or Put Bombs Under. Without realising, separated by stairs and salmon pink carpet, we were responding with the exact same mindless phrases. In the exact same tone. In perfect unison.

Right.
Yes.
Hmmm?
Oh I see.
Innnteresting.

"WHAT is going on?" demanded The Mothership, "Are you two being facetious? You're picking on me! Already!"

From that point on we were a unit. We compared twenty years of notes from our childhoods and discovered those shared experiences had given us the same warped humour and cynicism. We both loved to bitch and moan and laugh. We never had to explain anything to each other, because we always knew the backstory. We understood that the crappiest day could always be cured with a bar of chocolate and a trashy magazine. We also liked picking on The Mothership.

Just like retired old farts in a caravan, we had ROUTINES and we treasured them dearly. I chopped meat and vegies, she wielded the wok. I booked our gym classes, she ordered in restaurants. I picked up the Thai takeaway while she got the cutlery queued up the video. When I'd fart she'd say, Shall I reply? and let one rip too.

A favourite ritual was the weekly shop at Tesco. We were a precision shopping machine. We synchronised our watches, caught buses from our respective workplaces so we arrived at the same time, paused at the magazine rack, glided up and down the aisles with a shopping list that was ordered in harmony with the supermarket layout, then wasted half an hour browsing the chocolate so we'd have to run across the car park to make the bus on time.

Last Monday was The Final Shop. It was a rather emotional experience. We were dawdling in the car park, talking about jeans and how the ones with the "pre faded" stripes down the front make your thighs look fat, when suddenly our bus came barelling round the corner.

"Shauna!" Rhi screamed, "STOP THE BUS!".

I panicked, spinning the shopping trolley round in small and helpless circles. I am useless when asked to make a sudden movement. "Stop the bus? YOU stop the bus!"

Rhi bravely leaped out onto the street with manic eyes and outstretched arms, "SSSTOOPPP!".

Do you know how hard it is to find someone who'd stop a bus for you?

Last week I did a dress rehearsal Solo Shop. It was very traumatic. The checkout chick was merciless, flinging bananas and soup tins and expecting me to keep up with the plastic bags and grope for a debit card AT THE SAME TIME while a lengthy queue of snotty bastards looked on with pursed lips. For the past four years, Rhi had packed the heavy stuff while I took the fruit and veg, then she'd do the bread and loo paper and magazines while I handed over the cash. WE HAD A SYSTEM. How can you have a system WITH JUST ONE PERSON?

Rhi arrived in Sydney just one hour ago. She's there for a few weeks to visit friends and family, so it's all I can think about right now. She'll return for a few days in January when we'll fight over the frying pan and wage a bitter custody battle over the hairdryer, then that's it.

Things have changed dramatically these past four years and I owe so much of it my little sister. I am too rubbish to say this person, so I have to tell the WORLD on the internet. How do you like that logic? Anyway, indulge me for one paragraph. When Rhi moved in I was very ill, depressed out of my skull, afraid of the world and generally an apathetic blob. If you've been kind enough to have read this blog since the very beginning, you may have noticed I've changed a lot since then. Rhi managed to see through my bullshit and encouraged me to take risks. She's always known when to kick my butt or when to bring home some icecream. Without her I doubt I would have found the guts to move to the Other Side of the planet.

It's taken awhile, but I'm not scared of silly shit anymore, I don't lay awake worrying about what people think of me, I've learned to make things happen for myself. Without Rhi's coaxing I may have ignored the nagging voice inside that said I could do something with my life. So sister dear, thank you for just being your brilliant, arse-kicking self and making every day so hilarious.

We both knew this would happen. It's time to move on and we'll be fine. We have telephones, email and Easyjet. We both have everything in the world to look forward to. When I asked Rhi how was I supposed to go on, she replied with the usual withering wit, "I have nothing left to teach you."

Sometimes you can just feel change in the air, people. It's as thick and heavy and inevitable as the yeasty dog-food fog that spews from the Fountainbridge Brewery. Change is a bit like a brewery, don't you think? It makes a lot of scary noise and it stinks like hell, but the end product is delicious and good for you.

"I don't like men who are wet blankets."

"Then you want... a dry blanket?"

"I dunno. I don't like guys who smother you."

"So you wouldn't want a bunny rug then."

"I'm more after a light summer duvet."

"Ohh. I want a wild crocheted rug that you throw over your knees when you get cold at the football."

Cabin fever really set in last week. Well, attic fever, to be more precise. Rhi and I do our endless data entry holed up in a little room at the top of the stairs, with some servers and a very quiet secretary for company. Every time she leaves the room, we degenerate into behaviour not seen since kindergarten. Chronic boredom seems to have pushed us to the brink of madness. There's hair pulling, tickling, stomping on toes, Chinese burns, graffiting of limbs with highlighters, and very nasty insults. As soon as we hear the secretary on the stair, we drop our weapons and nonchalantly resume our typing.

Eight hours of daily attic confinement combined with living together has taken its toll. It all came to a head on Friday when Rhiannon "accidentally" smacked me across the face.

"Whoops!" she said. "I didn't mean to do that. Really."

"Really. Really?! What the hell is happening to us?" I cried, rubbing my nose. "We've become savages!"

"I know! We're worse than the Romans! Killing people for entertainment!"

We sat there contemplating our sad state. A mere hour later, Rhi got a call and was offered a job elsewhere. A real job, with a desk of her own, no attic, no data entry. She starts tomorrow. Left alone I will no doubt start talking to myself, but at least there will be an end to the violence.

Plans! Got the passport, got the two-year working holiday visa, and today Rhi and I picked up the one-way tickets. We leave Australia at the end of March. Look out world!

UPDATE:  Here are some answers to your questions...

At the airport

RHI: It's Shauna's first flight!
SHAUNA: Yay!
R: Shauna's going to fly!
S: Yes.
R: Shauna's plane is moving!
S: Mmm.
R: Shauna's first take-off!

45 minutes later

R: Shauna's first landing!
S: Would you please shut up!

We nicked off to Melbourne for the weekend and it was fantastic. Armed with Momo's definitive list of Groovy Things To See And Do we traipsed around and managed to pack a lot in to our short stay. Next time I hope to meet some famous Melbourne kiddies but this time I was too disorganised and many people were out of town, although I did briefly get to see the rockin' Nat and Scotty.

What a gorgeous city. The only thing stopping us from staying (aside from work and lack of finances) were our pathetic sore feet. Wherever I go I always seem to have inappropriate shoes. By Saturday afternoon our tootsies were swollen and blistered from clopping around town. The only option was to buy some new shoes. So we limped around for another two hours searching for something within our paltry budget (drained thanks to amazing Melbourne shops). Finally in desperation we resorted to... gasp... Masseurs.

Masseurs are the plankton of the shoe food chain. They basically consist of a sad bit of cork with a strap to slide your tired feet into. They are the essence of cool, if you're a scrag down the shops in Queanbeyan with a bellowing toddler named Jayden hanging off your hip and ciggie slumped on your lip. But in a swanky boutique you look bloody stupid with an elongated coaster strapped to your foot.

Vanity won out and we flipflopfled back to the hotel, but not before a very stylish lady looked down at my feet then back up at me with an alarmed expression. "I'm from out of town! I brought the wrong shoes!" I wanted to whine, but she moved away rather quickly. Needless to say the Massuers were banished to our suitcases and henceforth we hobbled.

Did you know about the secret life of Shauny and Rhi? The life in which we are arse-kicking space pirates, with ample bosoms and witty dialogue, plundering our way across the cosmos to steal cubic zirconias?

The ever-so-clever Mattay has immortalised us thus in his brilliant comic, Cosmic Corsairs in the Cubic Conundrum. He created the whole thing in one day as part of a 24 Hour Challenge - 24 pages in 24 hours! Take that, NaNoWriMo-ers. Since then he's published it complete with glorious colour cover! The critics are raving, and you can buy it at the comic counter at Impact Records or from the man himself.

The other day Mattay was leaving a copy at the Paperie at Woden for a guy who works there.

"So you're the famous Mattay!" said the dude behind the counter.

As Mattay did his endearing modest smiling aw shucks thing, I couldn't resist pointing to the cover and blurting, "Hey! That's me!"

Counter Dude looked at the cover and looked at me then frowned. "It is?"

"Yes. IT IS."

Bah.

I wish I could live up to my comic form. But my hair is not that sassy. And that body? I would have to be chained to a treadmill and fed nothing but lettuce leaves for ten years to achieve such an alluring physique.

Also, our dialogue is not that zingy. Take Sunday night, as our two heroines sat on opposing couches, antsy and cranky from the horrible heat. Our positions had varied little for the entire weekend. So by Sunday we were going slightly batty.

Rhi was fumbling with a bottle of Sweet Chilli sauce on the coffee table. "You know, I would take great pleasure in just hurling this bottle at the wall and watching it ooze down."

"That would be cool."

"But guess what would be cooler? THIS!"

That was when she poured her glass of water over my head.

With that, our maturity level plummeted fifteen years. We spent the next hour punching and kicking and shoving and slapping. I finally called time out after being whacked on the head with a copy of Paul Clitheroe's Make Your Fortune By 40.

Later on, as I was talking on the phone, Rhi was perched on her couch eating a bowl of custard and peaches.

"Hey," she said, interrupting my conversation. "Hey. Hey." She poked my leg as I ignored her. "HEY. HEY!"

"WHAT?"

"Do you think it would be funny if I poured this bowl of custard over your head? I think it would be."

I assure you, the two-dimensional comic Shauny and Rhi are far more exciting, mature and classy. So get your copy while stocks last!

SHAUNA: Arrroooooooooooooooo!

RHIANNON: Arrroooooooooooooooo!

We were watching television, Renovation Rescue 3. Perhaps it was the heat, the lack of dinner in my belly, or some deep animal instinct, but I suddenly felt the urge to tip my head back and howl like a mournful dog.

So I did. It was long and plaintive and very loud.

And without lifting her eyes from Brendan Julian's arse, Rhiannon joined in.

Seconds later, we were crying from laughing so hard.

SHAUNA: If anyone else had have been sitting there, they would have thought I was a loony. But you! You didn't bat an eyelid!

RHIANNON: Well, you howled. It seemed appropriate that you should not howl alone.

Discovery while putting away the grocery shopping tonight: being whacked across the back of the thighs with a leek really bloody hurts.

My reflexes are notoriously slow. By the time I wheeled around and yelled Hey!, my sister had already scampered to the other side of the room, cackling as she waved her garden fresh weapon around, "Oooh, I didn't know leeks were so hard! I thought it would have made more of a limp lettucey tap..."

My sister and I have bought a new car. Well, an old car. Well, not old. Made in 1998. It's my third car and finally I have one made in the nineties. I have come so far!

Anyway, we're getting a joint loan. It will be nice to share the expense of having a car. We decided to celebrate getting into debt by spending $80 on dinner.

The cute and sweet waiter greeted us (as opposed to the cute and funny waiter). He had a big smile and said, "Well, I haven't seen you two in here for awhile! Table for two?"

We had ordered some drinks when Rhiannon said to me, "Did you think there was anything weird about how he said table for two?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you think he thinks we're like... together?"

"Together? You and me? Ewww! That's freaky!"

"Well I don't think he realises we're sisters! I mean, we don't look anything alike. And we come in here all the time, just you and me."

"We come here with other people sometimes!"

"Yes but who have we come here with? Emily! Bettina! Jenny! Always girls!"

"Well Andrew came with us for my birthday remember?"

"Yes but he was clearly with Emily!"

"Well I spose next time we come here we'll just have to hire some male escorts."

"I say tonight we make a point of letting the waiters know that we're just sisters."

"Okay, but how do we do that?"

We were interrupted by Funny Cute who took our order. Rhiannon ordered the chicken something-or-other. I asked for the lamb rump with the exotic potato thingo.

"Okay, but it's actually not lamb rump anymore, we're using a different cut now because we weren't happy with the quality of the rump."

Rhiannon looked at me and raised her eyebrows. I tried to mentally calculate the impact of me saying "Oh, what a pity, I do enjoy a bit of quality rump". Would that establish my heterosexuality or just make me sound like an idiot?

Instead I just said, "Well. DAMN!"

Funny Cute went away and Rhiannon said, "I know what you were going to say there, something about liking a bit of rump!"

"Ahh, you always know what I am going to say."

"See! See what I mean? Just like an old couple! We can finish each others sentences, we're living together, we're buying a car together, we go to the gym together, can you see what impression we must give people?"

"I say we give the impression of two sisters who are just unusually in tune with each other as a result of a rather colorful childhood featuring questionable parents, a close bond developing between us as a means of survival. The only two sane ships in a sea of dysfunction, if you will."

"Can we just try and work it in somehow that we're sisters?"

"Okay."

Sweet Cute comes over with our garlic bread.

"You know," I said loudly. "Our mum really likes garlic bread."

But he'd already moved on to the next table and out of earshot.

"Dammit!"

Later on, I was umming and ahhing over the dessert menu. Sweet Cute came over and I gave Rhiannon that look, you know the one where you're trying to give someone their subtle cue? But with tortured eyebrows and twisted mouth, you end up more looking like you're constipated.

She understood, however, and spoke loud and clear. "So what are you going to have, sister dear?"

I tried not to snort from laughter and ordered the apple blackberry crumble. Sweet Cute went away and I hissed, "Do you think he'll understand what you mean by sisters? Like sisters as in we have the same mother?"

We pondered this for awhile, but then I overheard Sweet Cute talking to Funny Cute, "Hey, they're sisters! I never knew!"

We went shopping with the Mothership on the weekend. It was just like the old days.

Rhiannon fell into her old role of stylist: Noooo Mum those earrings do not say Come Hither, they say Come To My Tupperware Party On Thursday night. Nooo Mum, just because the orange juice is on special doesn't mean you need five bottles of it. Nooo Mum, vertical stripes are not slimming if they're made from polyester.

I reprised my acclaimed performance as Chief Whiner: Muuum, my feet hurt. Muum, I'm hungry. Muuum, I hate K-Mart and I am not going to go in there. You can't make me. I ended up sitting on the seat outside the store next to a wheezy old guy, sulking and looking at my watch. Something about spending time with that woman strips away any maturity gained since I left home and I'm ten again.

Whining aside, Mum just looks so goofy and happy for us to be with her that I follow her (limping) around the shops and let her crap on and on. Rhiannon is smarter though, she says "I'm just going to look over here for a minute", then runs out of the store.

I was in the shoe shop, glaring at snotty children while Mum launched into a tirade about the declining quality of winter footwear under $100, when suddenly my mobile rang. Sweet relief!

"Shauna! It's me."

"Rhi?"

"Yes! You have to help me!"

"What's wrong?"

"I'm in the change room at Jeans West. Can you come over quick and tell me if this skirt looks any good?"

That has to be the most novel use of a mobile phone I've heard in awhile.

On Saturday afternoons it is fun to get all dressed up and pretend you're looking to buy an investment property. We hide Golden Boy down the street so they can't see what a heap of shit he is, then sashay over to some exhibition apartments and townhouses and look like two chicks with Serious Money.

It is actually a dream of ours to invest together. Our plan is always make sure we look after each other so we don't end up destitute like our parents. Also, as we get older, we can keep our money together so some bastard husband can't get his grubby paws on it. So when one of us gets divorced, we can hide their moula in the other sister's account.

Yes, we're just a tad cynical.

Anyway, we would get something happening now except we don't have any money for a deposit. We've gone looking through the family tree and there's noone worth anything to us if they cark it. Basically we're on our own. So for now we have to play Fantasy Investors.

Rhiannon does the talking and I do the pacing around, peering at walls and windows as if I am doing some important mental calculations. Planting hands on hips adds to that pensive look.

They ask us how much are we looking to spend, we say 350K or so, we're first time buyers, but we're all about location, baby. We tell them we're already renting in the neighbourhood and they start salivating and handing out business cards.

We're all so very convincing until one of us accidentally blurts out, "Holy fucking SHIT look at the size of that master bedroom!"

There's this thing called Apartment Amnesia, I don't know if anyone else gets it. My sister stupidly entrusted me to go check out this apartment that I'd found in the paper and fill out the application, entirely on my own. Miracle of miracles we actually got the place, so she asked me to describe it to her and draw a rough floor plan.

Somehow I got it into my head that there was a normal bathroom plus an ensuite. I saw things that were not there. This kind of thing happens to me in department stores. Depending on which entrance I come in by, a door or a lift or an escalator, it looks like a completely different floor and I get disoriented and bewildered.

So I think I got loopy from pacing the circuit between the bathroom, the master bedroom and the laundry, all those interconnecting doors, the whole time chanting "Fuck we can't afford this, anyway he'll give it to that lovely rich looking couple, coz we are just kids and I don't even have Rhiannon here to look glamorous ooh look a dishwasher."

"So does it have a dishwasher?" Rhi asked me three days later.

"No it doesn't, sorry."

"What about a clothes dryer?"

"Nope."

"Are you sure? Those apartments usually have a wall-mounted one."

"No, no dryer. But there was definitely two bathrooms! Woohoo!"

So when we picked up the keys yesterday morning, my sister saw the place for the first time.

"Well whaddya know, there's a dishwasher and a dryer."

"Oh, so there is."

"And how do we get to the second bathroom? Is there a secret entrance inside the wardrobe?"

"I guess I must have dreamed up the second bathroom."

"You dickhead!" She didn't stop cackling for a full ten minutes.

Rhi also entrusted me to arrange a removalist to do the Heavy Stuff. We're lugging all the little things ourselves. Anyway, I went through the Yellow Pages and this company because they looked affordable. However, most people would never choose any company that had a U in their company name instead of You. We Move U. Oh U really do, baby.

Anyway they showed up in the filthiest old truck you've ever seen; peeling paint, balding tyres and a yapping fox terrier in the front. The removalists looked like they'd been plucked from the crowd at Summernats, dressed in short shorts and thongs (as in the SHOES, you foreigners) and grotty singlets with that long Rapunzelesque armpit hair that only guys in grotty singlets seem to cultivate. But they were friendly and very efficient, hurling our crappy furniture into the back of their truck in a very short time.

When we arrived at the apartment building, it was clear there was nowhere for them to park. So they ever so casually threw the truck into reverse and barelled over the nature strip, grazing the gardens and stopping just inches short of the mailboxes.

What they lacked in class they made up for in strength and speed. It was nice to let someone else do the grunty part of the move. But now we're on to the little shitty things, clothes and books and kitchen crap. If anyone gets bored and feels like walking up three flights of stairs repeatedly, give me a yell!

My little sister Rhiannon is 22 today! Happy birthday to my best mate.

In this pic, Rhi was one and I was three. I was in the middle of my Rosy Cheeks phase. Actually, still think I'm in it. I was blushing right from the moment I came out of the womb. But this particular pic shows Super Red cheeks. Perhaps I'd just been out skiing in the Alps or raiding the liquor cabinet.

You'd think the Getting Caught At Zeffirelli's In Your PJ's episode would have deterred my sister from taking her slumberwear out in public, but not so. We had a hankering for a hot fudge sundae from McDonalds, evil stuff but chocolately and delicious. But alas, in today's cashless society, we had a mere 45 cents between us, 10 of which I'd found in Harry's kennel, of all places. A trip to the ATM was in order.

"I'll drive and you run to the teller," I gallantly offered.

"But I'm in my slippers!"

"It's after nine! Noone will be around!"

Noone was around, unless you count a couple of ambulances and a small crowd of nosy onlookers. Lights flashed madly blue and red as someone was loaded onto a stretcher. Security guards from Supabarn mumbled into their radios and tried to look important.

"Oh for christ's sake!" hissed my sister.

"I should have bought my camera!"

"I'm in my slippers again!"

"We can wait til they leave. But how badly do you want that sundae?"

Next thing she's dashing past the drama, all lightness and grace in her lambswool coated tootsies.

"It's an old lady! She's okay! But she had a heart attack in the supermarket!" my sister reported breathlessly a few moments later. "Wonder what brought that on?"

"She just couldn't believe the price of the bananas."

Mmmmm, pizza. We wanted it bad last night. Or rather, we were too lazy to cook. Plus it's a good 5 degrees colder in our kitchen than it is outside. I'd got home late and my sister was parked in front of the heater in her pj's with no intent of moving. So we decided on pizza. Not the greasy home-delivered kind, but the yum and cheap Zeffirelli kind. So I called them with our order and then we headed out to pick it up.

"I'll drive and you run in and get it," said my sister, "coz I'm in my PJs"

"Okay."

"Is it legal to drive in slippers?"

"Sure it is."

She double parked while I ran in and grabbed the large San Luca, only $8.80! The place was packed as usual so it took me awhile. Finally I was outside again and Rhi had managed to find a park. She licked her chops and eyed the pizzas as she started the car.

The headlights flickered, once, twice, then nothing.

"Faaaaark!" I announced to passing strangers. "Not again!"

She turned the key again but nothing. Not a single light on the dash, nothing. "That's a brand new battery!" I ranted. "I paid $110 for that!"

"And I'm in my pyjamas!"

"But even if the battery had died it would still try to start, it'd make that dying cow sound like last week, so it can't be that..."

"I've got ugg boots on dammit!"

"I'll have to call the NRMA. Can I use your phone?"

"My phone's at home, don't you have your phone?"

"You know I never take that thing anywhere!"

"Well either do I!"

"There's no public phones around here, we'll have to go look for one"

"YOU have to go look for one! I've got blue PJ pants with clouds on them!"

It was too bloody cold to traipse around looking for a phone, so I took my chances at Ocean Master Seafood. It's a local, dodgy chain - a poor man's McDonalds, except with fish instead of... whatevers. The guy behind the counter beamed as I walked into the empty shop, behold! a customer! He was crestfallen when I said I just wanted to borrow the phone, but was kind enough to let me. The NRMA chick cackled at our predicament and said someone would be there in an hour.

"Look at this as an opportunity for us to have meaningful conversation," said my sister.

"The pizza looks good."

"Yes, yes it does."

The guy arrived at about 8.30. Rhiannon dived into the back seat. The guy poked and prodded around the battery and asked, "Who the hell installed this?"

"Some place that the last NRMA guy I saw recommended to me!"

"Oh. Well, they didn't do it properly!"

"Bah!"

Five minutes later he was gone with a slice and we were on the road again. Incidentally, the pizza was lovely.

Rhi's birthday cake was a stinking disaster. The initial baking was fine, but my decoration was woeful. First I screwed up the icing. All I had to do was add a tablespoon and half of water to the mixture, but I couldn't find the measuring spoons, so I thought I'd just gently turn on the tap and add a few drops. But noooo, the tap went on with a big whoooooooooooosh and next thing bowl is overflowing with chocolate watery slop. So I tried to salvage it by dumping in more icing sugar, but the icing sugar was lumpy and old so I ended up with slightly thicker chocolate watery slop with white chunks. I didn't have to spread the icing on the cake, I just poured and watched it spew out over the sides like a terrible skin disease.

Then I tried to artistically arrange the candles in a "21" formation, but it just didn't work. And lighting the 21 pissy little candles proved to be more difficult than it looked. So the crappy icing was now dotted with multicoloured blobs of wax.

Now let us compare and contrast the perfect chocolate mud cake my sister decorated for my 21st, complete with her hand-made chocolate leaves and strawberries and piped cream, with the technicolour echidna I created for her.

It may not look that good, but it tasted good. Bit like me, really :p

Happy 21st Birthday to my little baby sister and best mate in the whole world, Rhiannon! :)

My sister joined the ranks of the employed recently, and since she works some nights, I haven't seen her in the past 2 days. Our communication has been reduced to post-it notes. Last night I left one on top of the microwave so she'd know I'd cooked dinner for her. Then I left one inside the microwave. Luckily she checked out the meal before she heated it. Fried post-it, tasty stuff!

Last night was simply roasting. I tried to sleep, but at 1am it all became too much. I bought this fan recently, but it had been sitting unassembled in its box for two weeks. I could bear the heat no longer, so I got up and tore open the box and attempted to put it all together. How hard could it be? My sister had hers in action within in ten minutes! I sat on my bed, surrounded by bits of metal and plastic and polysterene, peering at the instructions by the light of my crappy old lamp, because anything brighter would attract those annoying little insects. 2.30 am and all I had achieved was a new record for most expletives in a sentence and a crumpled up instruction booklet. And I was still hot. And very cranky. Bah! So I had to resort to my old fan, Vincent Fan Gough, who is so old and rusty that I believe he kept my grandparents cool during WWII. I tried to sleep while he shrieked and creaked away like a beginners violin lesson. Needless to say, I am a grumpy number today.

I went shopping with my sister yesterday, who was resplendent in her new official Olympic Village t-shirt. She wasn't actually one of the village people, but in her sporty shoes and pants, she could have easily passed off as an athlete. She did work at the Games, so on a few occassions was able to go into the village and stickybeak at the famous faces. I'm not sure if the shirt was intended for non-Olympians, but that didn't stop my sis from getting her souvenir.

It's amazing and bloody amusing the respect that can be commanded by a simple item of clothing. I'm not sure if this is a tribute to the fine craftmanship of the Bonds t-shirt, or an indication of the stupidity of Canberrans. Every second person who passed us would do a double take, gawking at the OLYMPIC VILLAGE emblazoned across her shirt.

One woman stomping down an escalator actually stopped in her tracks, lowered her sunglasses and peered at my sister. You could almost see the thoughts running through her head: "Did I see that girl on TV? She's a bit too tall for gymnastics. Too short for pole vault. Too small for a weightlifter..."

Another little kid tugged on a parents arm and whispered in that not-so-subtle kiddie's whisper, "Hey Mum! It's someone from the Olympics!"

My sister was highly absorbed in her bargain hunting as usual, so she hadn't even noticed the attention she was getting until I pointed it out. Then we had our fun concocting up too-loud conversations to really fuck with the minds of moronic passers-by. We decided she was a member of some unnamed team sport, but a highly successful one at that:

"We didn't have sundried tomatoes like these at The Village"

"Oh! This random can of soft drink reminds me when you scored that goal in the semi-final and I knocked over my Fanta in my excitement!"

"God these checkouts are slow! You're gonna be late for your Visualisation Training!"

"I will buy this Mars Bar, now that it's October."

Hehe.