With thanks to all you lovely contributors, and most abject apologies for the entries that were ruthlessly culled. No words were harmed in the process.

Arse ppq
Bedraggled ppq
Buzz ms j
Cheeky cheeky
Clientele unlucky man
Fecund ppq
Fracas crumb
Gadzukes unlucky man
Glands crumb
Grommit ms j
Hooter unlucky man
Jubblies bubs
Juxtapose cheeky
Kevlar ppq
Knob ppq
Lull unlucky man
Mongoose crumb
Muff cheeky
Nebulous ms j
Nibble jonners
Onomatopoeia cheeky
Opsonic neil
Penchant ppq
Plinth jonnyb
Plonker ppq
Prism ms j
Pulchritudinous neil
Purr ms j
Shonky gav
Smorgasbord ppq
Snookums jonners
Snuggle gav
Spank jonnyb
Spoon jonners
Submit jonners
Succinct ppq
Treacle ms j
Wibble ms j
Widget cheeky
Wobbly crumb

You must decide to risk your heart for love to find you


And if you get a moment whilst pondering that one, then visit my buddy Neil and help him out with his heartbreakers

...then you're a spanner!

Cheekysquirrel was right, as a woman my moods do change at the drop of a hat, but that is a woman's prerogative. Quicker than a quick thing, my grumpiness was lifted on reading this. Seems things are looking up for this so called Unlucky man...

I think my mood changes with the weather.

This morning I felt bright & cheery. It was promising to be a glorious day and I felt good. Hell, even my hair was behaving, and I had excellent 'date hair' (but alas no date!).

About two hours ago, the sky started to darken, the ominous clouds began rolling in almost as if someone had dicked around with the film speed. Now I find myself cowering at my desk, hoping with all hope that this incessant rain will stop. Cowering because I am shit-scared of thunder and lightning, even though I spent some or my formative years in Brunei where the thunderstorms are freakin' terrifying (I guess habitulisation is not always successful). Cowering because this irrational fear means I don't quite know how I'm going to get home since my legs are like jelly and I...just...can't...make....it....

Ho hum...

Last seen pursuing a life on the ocean wave, our intrepid hero had dreams of sailing into the sunset. He'd had big dreams once, when he was 12, but had shelved them when the 'grown ups' convinced them they weren't feasible...

J: "What did you want to be when you were 12?"

PPQ: "When I was 12? Either an underwater archeologist or a fighter pilot. What about you?"

J: "What do you think you would do now if someone offered you a job as either an underwater archeologist or a fighter pilot? Answer the question"

PPQ: "I'd probably um and ahhh over it...but you didn't ask me what I wanted to be when i was 15, which was a writer, and I'd bite their hand off if they offered me that job...why, have you been offered the game design job?"

J: "Yeah, I've been offered the gaming job, which is exactly what I wanted to be when I was 12 - 15 years old; until reality caught up with me and with the help of careers advisors I convinced myself that the dream was impossible. And, I think I'm gonna bite their hand off. Twisty turny life indeed."

Sometimes, when my life is a little shitty and I feel like screaming and throwing a hissy fit, I hear good stuff from others, and it makes me smile.

Maybe dreams do come true?

I’ve been in Somerset for the last couple of days. I was visiting Ems, an old school friend who moved to Alaska a few years back but had come home for a couple of weeks. C and I hired a car and drove down on Thursday for a few days of chin wagging and catching up, and most importantly, to meet Ems’ first born, Toby.

Ems, C, SJ and I have known each other for over 16 years, and Toby’s birth was monumental in all of our lives, so that might explain my bias over him. He is a beautiful baby, full of charm and affection, and at four and a half months, he already has a personality.

I could drone on about Toby, I find babies and kids so fascinating and could watch them for hours but I really need to avoid this. My biological clock is ticking rather loudly of late (obviously a man-repellent trait when sans homme), so I have muffled it with two and a half packets of cotton wool, a trumpet muffler and a terylene dressing gown..

Despite fighting over Toby cuddles, us adults did manage to spend some qwalidee time catching up on the new stuff and reminiscing on the old. There’s something so good about time spent with your oldest friends. And of course we sampled the alcohol in the local pub.

The walk home from the pub included hanging around on the dark village streets looking up at the star-peppered sky and hoping for a few shooting stars. In the country the stars shine so much more brilliantly than here in the city so staring up at the night sky is so much more of an event and just so awesome.

And there’s something about the sea that calls to me silently, always beckoning. Strange considering I come from a landlocked kingdom but something about it just compels me. Hey, maybe some day I’ll be able to fulfil my dream of having a little country cottage by the sea so that I have somewhere to escape to when this beloved city gets a little too much. Guess I’d better dust off my piggy bank and start saving those pennies then.

When faced with my demons, I clothe them and feed them.

(With thanks to my dating mentor, Unlucky man, for the calm words of advice)

I've been blown out.

The Dreamboat and I had finally managed to arrange a mutually agreed time to meet and go for drinks, and it was tonight. I got up this morning, eager as a prom queen on prom night ready to lose her virginity to the ‘love of her life’, prettied myself up and went to work feeling all chipper.

Even a purgatory-day full of meetings didn’t get me down. Well, until about 4pm anyway, when I got this leaden gut feeling that drinks tonight would somehow be scuppered. Oh my prophetic guts (apologies to Shakespeare for shameless paraphrasing). Not half an hour later I got a phone call from the Dreamboat.

I know this is not a good thing. This has happened before. Being a workaholic, the Dreamboat only calls before meetings to cancel or re-schedule. My stomach is in my mouth, my heart is racing and I’m praying to God, Allah, Ganesh, hell, ANY freakin’ omnipotent being who’ll help me here.

DB “I’m so sorry. I even got into work super early today to make sure I could leave on time for our drinks, but my day has fallen apart and I’m stuck here. I’m so sorry.”

A bitterly disappointed PPQ “Oh…..um….well, never mind, guess we can do it another time.” (Yeah right Call me cynical, but I know what this is. This is a brush off.)

DB “Well how about tomorrow?”

PPQ (Interesting, maybe it isn't a brush off) “Can’t do tomorrow. Drinks with an old friend” (and besides, does he really think I would admit to being free at a moments notice?!)

DB “What about Friday?”

PPQ “Nope, going to Devon on Thursday. You weren’t kidding about being useless at sticking to drinks dates were you?” (There, take that you heartbreaker)

DB “Oh God, I know I’m useless at sorting this stuff out. I’m getting a reputation for blowing people out. Xxx even said ‘You know you won’t make it for drinks with her, you’ll blow her out like you do everyone else’.”

PPQ (Mildly interested now, has he been discussing me with others?!) “What do you mean you’ll get a reputation? You already have one!”

DB “I know. It’s terrible, I promise I’ll make it up to you. I’ll write it in my diary.”

PPQ (feeling a little mean but unable to stop myself) “ What exactly are you going to write in your diary? We haven’t agreed another time.”

DB “I’m writing two things in my diary. Don’t worry, I’ll surprise you. I really am sorry.”

So I have been blown out. So who cares? I was brave enough to put myself ‘out there’ with DB by suggesting drinks in the first place. Okay so it didn’t work this time, and maybe it won’t ever. But then again maybe it will. Que sera sera, ours is not to tell, yadee yadee yada.

Quicker than a whippet, I get on the blower to Bubs. She comes to my rescue and we have one of those brilliant, hearty-laugh filled evenings with the added bonuses of red wine and Thai food. Totally impromptu but totally fun.

Yes, so okay, I was blown out, but at least I can take solace in the fact that I wasn’t stood up, dewy eyed and all prettied up with my prom queen skirt in a bar full of people. Now that would have been a tears before bedtime scenario. And that just wouldn’t do.

I have just spent a thoroughly enjoyable few hours with the everso lovely Danny Wallace and his publishers, whilst being treated to lunch at Bertorelli's. Yum.

Sometimes, on a sunny day like today when the very few perks of the job kick in, I love my job.

*Warning...sycophantic spiel coming*
Danny is a funny, intelligent and utterly charming man, who up until recently was best known for being Dave Gorman's sidekick. Things are set to change because for a good few months, Danny has been forming a cult/collective who believe in performing random acts of kindness.

Oh and did I say just how gorgeous he is? It's funny how someone who's not bad looking can suddenly seem like the only (and best looking person) in the world when they take a genuine interest in you, make you laugh, and think you're equally funny.

I wish him the best of luck. He has a great writing style, an excellent sense of humour and the most beautiful fall-in-love-with-me doe eyes I've seen for some time!
*Sycophantic Spiel over*

And just for fun and at a compete tangent to this post, in honour of Donnie Darko and supposedly the most beautiful phrase in the English language, I'm working on a list of favourite words...all entries on a postcard to the usual address (comment box), but I leave you with one that will take some beating...smorgasbord.

Yasmin Boland - This week you're irresistable and you can get whatever you ask for.

Metro - It's not easy to follow your gut when your head is telling you something completely different but that's the choice you have to make. DO you trust yourself?

Now - Flirty is your middle name, especially with Venus taking up long-term residence in your sign - but can you do more with those social skills than turn heads?

Sheesh, it ain't half hard being the flirtiest and best looking sign in the zodiac. I just wish it were all true.

Awwwww, I reheeeally miss the old style double deckers on my daily commute. I loved sitting on the top deck of those cantankerous old things as we chugged along the bus lanes, and ripped round corners at surprising speed.

They took the last ones of the 98 route a couple of weeks ago, and consequently, my journey to and from work takes an extra 10 minutes or so because I can't hop on/off in between stops and traffic lights.

I realise that the decision to put these babies to rest has probably been taken quite seriously. They're nigh on impossible to get on if you're a parent with a pushchair, if you're infirm or if you're in a wheelchair, and half of them break down every other morning.

But I can get quite sentimental about them. Along with black cabs, Big Ben, and numerous other things, they epitomise this city. It'll be a sad sad day when they get rid of every last one of them.

I envy the other routes who haven't quite managed to let them go yet...and I mourn the loss of them on my route.

R.I.P.

Col, loveable rogue of a housemate on my dilemma with the Dreamboat

"Get him drunk and ride him like the bitch he is"

One hour, 26 minutes and 32 seconds until my meeting with one of my suppliers and The Dreamboat.

Rats.

Now meetings with the Dreamboat are normally momentous (even if they are for work).
I usually count down the seconds and look forward to them with alarming, heart-racing glee, but today is not one of those days. In fact today I meet the idea of a meeting with him with great consternation.
Because today I woke up with bad hair of troglodyte proportions, and the puffiest eyes that even a super-charged cocktail of Aveda eye cream, Clinique turnaround for eyes and Benefit ooh la lift couldn't help.

Added to this, I am utterly convinced that since they introduced the 'smart-business-causal-no-jeans' ruling at work, The Dreamboat has now seen every possible permutation of work clothing I have.

I was worrying about this clothing dilemma last night, and bemoaning my lack of sexy work wear with my housemate Col.

PPQ "Sweet Jesus, the man's seen practically every item of work clothing I own. I could look so much better in my favourite jeans and a cute top".

Col "Why don't you just go any buy some more clothes?"

PPQ "Can't. Skint skint, skinterty skint."

Col "Oh well, he's a man isn't he? I can guarantee you that it'll make no difference - he probably hadn't even noticed what you wore all those other times anyway."

PPQ "Harumph."

Sometimes I get that not-so-fresh feeling.

Would life be any easier if we all wore our hearts on our sleeves?

Back in the day of the Neanderthal, a simple grunt and a club over the head of the woman he fancied was sufficient for our hirsute friend. Females didn't have to worry about preening and over-analysing what that grunt meant, males simply chose and clubbed.

Now I'm not advocating violence of course, and heaven help the man who decided to club me round the head, but it would be so much easier if we all knew who fancied who. Then there would be less call for this terrible state that so many of us find ourselves in. The um-ing and ah-ing. Do I say something? Should I keep it to myself? What did he/she mean when they said that? Does my hair look good? Do they fancy me or am I imagining things? Can I cope with rejection?

Then again, if we were all marauding the place telling everyone that we fancied them, the world would probably be a boring place void of true romance. And more importantly, just how much rejection could a person take?!

Actually, he's not drunken all that often.
Well..maybe sometimes...maybe even most of the times.

My mate Jonners if off on an awfully big adventure. Off to sail the seven seas in a bid to avoid a 'normal life', following a dream, whatever you call it. It's brave, it's exciting, and I envy him.

Some us sit around on our arses all day dreaming about doing the things we'd love to do. Hell, some of us moan and complain about it. Those of us who do this accept a life of mediocrity, and have no one but ourselves to blame.

But some of us gather together their courage and their backbone and actually DO something about it.

Jonners, I salute you in your quest or whatever you'd like to call it.

Now...I'm off, yup, I'm going to live vicariously through you until I've managed to find that backbone of mine.

So I promised myself to give up on the whole crush on B, but dammit I spent nigh on 8 hours with him yesterday, and it's all come crashing (crushing?) back. I shall now refer to him as The Dreamboat (a moniker which my older brother came up with) because it is oh-so apt.

It's so hard to think realistically when I've got a crush. I just turn into more of a a freak. I start imagining perfect, fairy-tale scenarios, I obsess and I find it difficult to concentrate on anything for more than five minutes.

Yesterday, The Dreamboat and I has to spend 8 hours together on business. He picked me up from my place at 7.15am and with the majority of the time being travel and lunch, I felt more like we were on a first date than on business. It was so strange, but we only discussed work for about an hour, and the rest of the time we spent finding out about each other with playful banter and gentle ribbing. And the more I get to know him, the more I think we'd be great together.

With us together, the Sunday paper would be covered. With him, I would no longer feel bad for the supplements I had spurned in favour of the Travel, Arts (Review) and magazine sections. He'd read those 'other' sections and the Sunday paper's destiny would be fulfilled.

The Dreamboat and I would make the perfect Sunday-paper-reader-combination.

What more can I say?

In honour of Neil - fellow Coupland admirer

"You are my trailer park."
"And you, Anna-Louise, are my tornado."

*************************************************************

"I think of how people can betray me simply by not caring enough to hide the fact of how little they care. I think of how the person who needs the other person the least in a relationship is the stronger member."

Shampoo Planet - Douglas Coupland

It's true.
It drives my housemates mad, and I feel awful that it does, but I can not physically help it...

I am addicted to my snooze button.

I've never been a morning person and have always remained steadfastly convinced that certain humans are born with a gene that means they have a need to hibernate in the winter months. But since this is not a recognised affliction and hibernation would not be considered socially acceptable, these poor bastards (me included) suffer throughout the rest of the year. Mornings are pretty much written off, and up until about 11am they wander the earth in a apoplexic state.

In my case, the symptoms also manifest themselves in an additional way - alarm clock abuse. In fact my relationship with my alarm clock has never been good. I resent the damn thing. With it's smug, but oh so shrill cacophony of a ring, it's one touch light and sleek grey features.

I have been known to hide my alarm clock in my sleep. A catastrophic state of frenzied getting-ready-for-work (just how is a girl expected to put on her make up in two minutes flat?!) ensues. And my other trick is to keep hitting snooze to catch an extra four minutes of shut eye. This morning was probably my record. I hit my snooze button ELEVEN times before I got up.

Heinous I know. And dear Jonners once told me that we could never make it as a couple because I'm a snoozer.

I think I need to find a snooze therapist.