1. Those who are determined to prove that they are just like everybody else.

2. Those who are determined to prove that they are nothing like everybody else. This one is actually divided into two sub-groups:

a. The ones who outright reject the notion of conformity. They wear the Uniform of Nonconformity (all black with dated band t-shirts OR ironic fashion statement shirts; chunky fuck-off boots in the middle of the hot Australian summer) and vocally refuse to watch network television because of its sickening commercialism and crypto-fascist mind-control techniques.

b. The ones who dress like everybody else but take every opportunity to point out how crazy they are. Look! My friend and I are so weird that we swapped a sock so now we're wearing one white and one striped sock each! We're so crazy! These girls wear the Uniform of Weird (basically normal clothing, except with something minorly quirky like an Elmo badge) and quietly refuse to watch network television because it's so dull and mainstream and it doesn't show the really good shows like Monty Python's Flying Circus.

Art stared at me, looked conflicted for a moment and eventually conceded that she couldn't disagree. So it must be true.

When I was in my teens, I was not cool. I was not hip to any manner of jive. If you wanted to know where the action was at, you could ask practically anyone and they would look in the direction of me and my friends and then point the other way. We were like a compass for working out where excitement was not happening.

However, as a result of a successful year of nerdly courtship, wherein I was able to impress a boy by being able to recite the full name of Johann Gambolputty � of Ulm from memory, I started getting invited to outings with comparatively trendy people, whom he'd met as part of his scholarship group in first-year uni. OK, they were all law students, but they were as cool a crowd as I was ever likely to encounter. I remember when I was 18, we all went to what I now recognise to be a shabby, seedy youth nightspot in Miranda. However, since it was the only youth nightspot in Miranda, and since the girl at whose place we would all be crashing lived around the corner and we didn't know any better anyway, we made do with the seediness and the sticky carpet and got on with things.

There was definitely a protocol when I was a teenager, and one by which I never abided, that dictated that you were supposed to have a beer or a Bacardi, depending on your gender and/or your sexual orientation, and then spend the rest of the evening telling anyone who'd listen how drunk you were. It was much cheaper than actually getting drunk, but was worth the same amount of Street Cred Points.

Anyway, until that point all I'd ever really drunk was cider and cheap wine, so when I experienced my first sip of a new friend's sweet, sweet alcopop, I wanted to know what it was and made the mistake of showing that I was socially stunted enough to have to ask. (It was a Bacardi Breezer, by the way.)

That sort of thing is an ultimate Cool Test. Strangely named juices during the daytime and strangely named cocktails by night. Have you heard of a Blue Unicorn Spiderman Dream? Yes? Come in! Take a seat on the Barcelona chair. Chef's special this evening is a Pork Grenade. It's a watermelon with half a pig in it. ALL the cool people are eating them. Oh, never heard of a Blue Unicorn Spiderman Dream? No, I'm sorry, you can't join us. Just � go sit on your vinyl kitchen chair and enjoy your Pepsi, and try not to hurt yourself thinking. Don't worry, we'll drop in on our way home from being funky just to make sure that you haven't accidentally choked on your utter lack of cool.

It may surprise you to learn that hipster bars and indeed nightclubs in general have never been my scene, so nowadays I don't bother with them. I prefer to stay at home with a good book or DVD, a glass of red and some double brie. I don't drink wine to get drunk. I drink it to appreciate its full-bodied flavour and to complement the cheese. And to dull the memories of my life and the things in it.

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Things that made me happy today:

- Hearing my husband sitting by himself at the other end of the house singing to himself in falsetto.

- Thinking about this return of awful '80s fashions, and how anyone who actually remembers the '80s has no desire to relive it. With shoulder-pads the way they were, the only difference between a woman and a Gridiron player was the helmet. And since most bars don�t allow helmets, things probably got a bit confusing sometimes at night in dim lighting.