But yes, it was worth it. I bought the car with my hard earned cash, before I even got my licence, so there’s a lot of sentimental value in wee Bronson - the malodorous embodiment of my transportational independence. (Are there awards for outrageous sentences? There should be - prizes in cake).

So this is the thing - how far do you go, monetarily or otherwise, to keep the things you love or really value from going to Hades? Many people would have said no-thank-you-sir when quoted a $2000 bill for their $2000 car. More personally, most of us have been in the sad position of having to have a much loved but old or sick pet put to sleep, when the only alternative was a bank loan. But, in the same vein, how swell is it to discover some old relic of your youth online or in an op shop - your favourite book, the complete collection of Don Spencer’s greatest hits (including Feathers, Fur and Fins), Gumby figurines…

Sometimes, in the case of your old bitsa or tabby, you’ve got to be cruel to be kind…but if you’ve got the cash - go for gold! So this leaves us with three questions. How much have you paid for something you really wanted? Where would you draw the line? And where is that kid Bronson these days? (No seriously, where is he?)

There once was a time when a top notch gift was in order for one of my more bizarre pals, and I suddenly realised the true potential of this department of Catholic wonder. After all, nothing says “It’s your birthday, take your pants off” like a Disco Mary.

For those not so much in the know, the Disco Mary light (or Jesus, Moses, whoever) is initially a fairly sedate picture of the Biblical persona in a frame…until you plug it in, and the background goes crazy with neon lights, swirling and flashing around! Ka-blamo! I bet the Pope has one.

Disco Mary’s have to be the ultimate birthday present - a brilliant talking point, bright, cheesy and plug it in for disco fun! Fun for the Catholics, hilarious for everyone else - everyone wins! They seem to be in every second market stall or bargain shop, and thank goody gumdrops for that - genius on all levels.

This is what it’s like to give a Disco Mary:

Me: Happy birthday friend! I got you a little something (hands over tastefully wrapped Disco Mary)

Friend: Wow, thanks Anna, this looks…swell (not too impressed…unwraps present…sets it up on a mantle piece…plugs it in…)

Both: Holy mackeral! Woo hoo! (disco dancing ensues the whole night long).

We seem to be faced with three basic choices: accidental romance (including newspaper personals), meeting through mutual friends, or going cyber. I’m a little turned off the idea of internet dating, mostly because it seems that many users present only the most thinly constructed reality of themselves in a bid to maximise their charm. I mean, can there really be that many people who are honestly fulfilling the Hollywood rom-com criteria of being genuinely smart, funny and beautiful? (Aside from moi, of course).

So we turn to meeting friends through friends, which can be dicey at best. I guess this is mostly because both parties probably know they’re being set up, and from personal experience, being forced on a semi-blind date can be pretty uncomfortable. You’re also being asked to take your friend’s word for how you will perceive their friend (‘Oh but he’s so funny!’ ‘Yeah, and a pretentious twat’), and this can lead to arguments when you have to defend why you found their (allegedly) incredibly gorgeous and perfect-in-every-way buddy ol’ pal entirely repulsive.

So we move on to everyone’s favourite - the chance encounter. This seems to be considered the most romantic way to meet a possible interest de love - your eyes meeting across a crowded tapas bar…you dial the wrong number only for it to be answered by the love of your life - these scenarios are the stuff of legend, and imply that Fate has stepped in and leant a hand.

However you choose to advertise yourself, we all know that there is only one true book of love in Melbourne - the great tome of lust that is the ‘Here’s looking at you’ section of MX. We’ve all been standing on a train or tram, between an armpit and an emo, having a sneaky squiz at the personals; hoping against hope, and wishing against wish that today (oh god, today) someone might be writing to you. I’ve taken to always wearing an orange fedora to make me easier to describe by any possible suitor - surely I’d be the only ‘girl in the jaunty orange bonnet’?

Complete lies aside, I have to let you in on a wee secret. All this thought about dates and the like was brought about by a singular event that occurred when I was approached by a stranger on a train, method: MX. Picture this: a crowded train, too many bikes, one beer too many. I fall over a bike, only to look up to be given one of the sauciest winks in history. A good start - made me laugh. Thus thrown into a tizz, I self-consciously focused on my MX (no love letters today, but it would happen, I told myself) until I arrived at my stop. As I went to get off, el strangero leapt out of nowhere, shouted ‘Oy!’ and thrust a scrap of paper into my hands. Looking down, I found the lad’s name and number scrawled on the ripped out personals, with ‘Here’s looking at you’ circled thickly. Nice!

It struck me as incongruous that this pretty gutsy act (I wouldn’t've done it, that’s for shiz) was coupled with the one section of MX is all about keeping your feelings on the down low. Let’s face it, there’s nothing really scary about sending in an anonymous text to MX saying ‘I think you look rather nice, so come and say hi’ - it practically super glues the ball to the other person’s court.

But when it’s done in person, and all analogies aside, what is the correct protocol when given a number or asked on a date by a stranger? Has it ever happened to you? What did you do? This is the problem - we’re all looking for love, but what happens when these opportunities are thrust upon us by someone we don’t know?

July 10 - Updated due to hot demand

Alright, alright I admit it - I went on the date and I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry. I didn’t expect all that feedback, and now I feel I owe it to all you brave readers, and so here it is: the follow up epistle.

You know the types - the punk-arse kid sprawled across three seats, the obnoxious intellectuals talking too loudly about the economy, the dense school girls lowering your IQ just by being in their presence. Sure, it could be said that these people are just part of the rich tapestry of our PT system, but honestly, can’t they just piss off?

Yesterday I was on the way to work with my housemate Tess. The train was crowded, as usual, and everyone was packed into the space between the doorways with nothing to hold on to.

Looking around I saw that a Suit was leaning against one of the poles, like an arsehole, making it impossible for anyone to hold on to it. So, I asked him nicely if he would mind standing to the side so the people stumbling around him would have something to hold on to. Now, I’m a firm believer in innocent until proven guilty, but I was pretty sure this guy would get convicted by any anti-sonofabitch tribunal - he looked around at the expectant faces of people waiting for him to do the right thing, settled back and said “Nah, I’m happy here.” What the hell do you say to that?

It’s not like this was a one-off, there’s been so many times when I’ve been speechless at the kinds of dicketry seen on our PT system - like the couple so intent on reading their John Grisham’s during peak-hour that the shy school kid squashed between them got his eyes poked out every time either of them turned a page.

Admittedly, it’s not all bad. There have been times when I’ve found some PT antics hilarious. This is probably my favourite overheard conversation:

Girl 1: If any of the girls who hate me turn around and say anything to me today, I’m going to turn around and say something.

Girl 2: Ohmygod, really?

Girl 1: Yeah, I’m like gonna totally turn around and say “Don’t you turn around and say that - you were like backstabbing her the other day.”

Girl 2: Ohmygod.

Girl 1: Yeah, so if they turn around and say anything, I’m just gonna turn around and say something back.

Girl 2: Ohmygod!

Girl 1: Did you talk to your parents about the trip?

Girl 2: Ohmygod, they were so mad. Like, so mad.

Girl 1: Why?

Girl 2: They really don’t want me to go. They’re like “Why don’t you just go to Afghanistan?”

Girl 1: What? It’s not like it’s dangerous. I mean, just cos it’s going to be the Olympics, doesn’t mean anything will happen.

Girl 2: I think they meant about the earthquakes…

Girl 1: What…?

I don’t know what the solution is to getting these divs off the trains and trams, as they seem to be a guaranteed added mystery prize. I suppose all I really want to say is: there’s no point being an arsehole or a wanker or insanely stupid, because you’re just going to be quietly judged by me, and then written about in an incredibly prestigious publication. Like this one.

Trivia Wednesdays at Preston’s own Stolberg Beer Café is a case in point, and I would, and will, declare that there isn’t a better night out with the bogans in the whole world. Who could resist the punk/cheerleader who is Ash the Trivia Master? Who could resist the questions taken slyly-like from the pages from that week’s tome of good journalism the Herald Sun? Who could possibly resist anything situated on the jewel of the north, Bell Street? That answer, wee friends, is no one.

The charms of trivia are endless, and the charms of trivia plus Preston are enough to make a grown man weep softly into his kebab (probably from the Preston Kebab House up the road - delish).

Starting at 8pm every Wednesday, trivia night at the Stolberg is an experience not to be missed. You can play alone, or call to book a table for your team – either way, you’ll probably be pleasantly surprised that you didn’t get stabbed by either the Jets or the Sharks before you walked in the door, and once you’ve got over the shock of still being alive in Prestonia you better hunker down for the time of your life!

In my experience, trivia night generally starts with a musical number or two from the divine Ash, along the lines of Olivia Newton-John’s ‘Physical’ with all the relevant ‘physical, physical’ bits over-sung by Ash shouting ‘TRIVIAL, TRIVIAL!’ You have to see it to believe how beautiful it can be.

And it’s not only the Trivio Mastero who gets in on all the action – in the words of one little trivia friend, the whole night is ‘perfect for those who love to get interactive, particularly in the form of dance-offs… terrifying for those who don’t.’ Never fear! You can always claim poopy-pants and run away before anyone makes you dance, though you may not win the bonus prize of a stash of 1996 TV Weeks – oh yes. Didn’t I tell you this is a classy joint?

Aside from the antics of Ash, the sweet tunes to sing along to, and the joy of a few pints with friends, there is more to recommend the Stolberg than appears at first glance. The classic red neon strip around the whole exterior? The proximity to both Bell Street and Plenty Road? I mean, the 86 tram is just there! What’s not to love and adore?