I dread birthdays.

I've always dreaded them, as far back as I can remember.

I particularly remember this green-gilled feeling round about the time of my 15th birthday when I found myself in a severe depressive funk over the imminent milestone that was facing me...I was half way to 50. Okay it sounds ridiculous for someone so young to behave like this but hey, that's me.

Two years ago when the ex-bastard broke up with me only days after my birthday, AND whilst I was laid up in bed recuperating from minor surgery on my back, I really thought I'd hit birthday rock-bottom. But the following year for some reason unbeknownst to me, I started to look forward to this anniversary of my birth.

This year I've found myself doing much the same. I've actually been looking forward to it, and that may be because I've had a pretty crap couple of months. It's too long and too boring to get into, but let's just say it's not been a good year so far.

Despite this, here I am today - it's my 28th birthday and nothing terrible has happened to me (touch wood) and I'm actually enjoying myself. In fact, even though I was beginning to think that my unlucky buddy's bad luck was rubbing off on me, things have taken a turn for the better...

1) Last night Unlucky took me to see Kathryn Williams - a genius concert with an ace support band called Clayhill
2) I turned up at work to find my mate had bought me a chocolate brownie
3) My Dad called from 6000 miles away to wish me Happy Birthday -mum's calling tomorrow
4) Even though I left my handbag in Starbucks in Selfridges after a meeting first thing this morning, when I remembered and rushed over SURE that it would have been nicked, some kind soul had handed it in without nicking anything from it
5) My team at work had chipped in and bought me some ACE green strappy kylie sandles that I've been lusting after and a bunch of flowers
6) My Print buyer took me to lunch at a Conran restaurant

So you see things ain't that bad at all. And while the cynic in me thinks that this short run of good things MUST mean there's bad stuff around the corner, the birthday girl in me is feeling pretty much like a princess.

I love this city. I really do. But sometimes, every now and then I encounter one of two things which really gets my blood boiling. The first thing is fat sloanes. Objectionable bastards who prey on the unfortunate and weak souls who have strayed from their social group by trying to belittle them. I can not discuss these heinous beings further for fear of having a self-induced coronary, so I’ll move swiftly on to the second.

Rudeness.
In my mind, it is totally unnecessary.
We laud ourselves as being the superior race because we can communicate, but that’s not real much if we use our communication to be mean and rude to each other. I mean, what’s so wrong with a little smile, a please, a thank you, holding doors and lifts for each other. It’s not such a mammoth effort to do these things, is it?

Just before Christmas I found myself starting to lose faith in mankind. Everywhere I went I was subjected to rudeness in some form…being a vertically challenged female I was subjected to jostling, elbowing, and general physical abuse. When I held the lift for people in my office block and smiled, I was met with a grunt or a grimace’ likewise when I let someone in front of me in the bus queue or at the check out in Sainsbury’s. Season of giving and goodwill? My arse.

I recalled some lyrics from my spandex-clad childhood with longing;
Where have all the good men gone and where are all the Gods?
Where’s the street wise Hercules to fight beneath the stars?

Just where had all the good men (and women) gone?

I’d lost the spring in my step that this city usually brings out of me. My breathless awe at the wonder of it all was gone. I had become one of those Londoners. One of the ones I promised I’d never be. Yup, a jostler, a sulker.

And then, just when I’d begun to lose all hope, just when I’d resigned myself to my fate as one of the multitude of London arses, something happened which totally blew me away.

One bitter night I was merrily meandering along Dean St with two friends. We were on our way to Jerusalem for more merriment and maybe even a little dancing, and I was wearing my new prized possession, a Hooch coat. Not unlike a full length, body-shaped sleeping bag, I resembled a bug all cocooned in this lovely padded haven. I was also wearing the cutest dolly shoes with steel tipped heels. Big mistake.

I can tell you now that I did not trip up over anything, I was not pushed, no, I did it all on my own. My steel tipped heels were as dicey as hell and I, like the true klutz that I am, made a spectacular fall - a panel of judges would most probably have given me a 9.9. My legs came out from under me flew up ahead of me and I felt myself falling (obviously in slow motion) bum first to the concrete road.

I was clenching every single sinew and muscle in my body in anticipation and dreading the imminent pain I was sure to feel on impact.

But it didn’t come.

Instead a random gentlemanly stranger had run from out of nowhere, caught me just in time and gently lowered me to the ground so that I was sitting down rather gracefully instead of spread-eagled. My very own superhero had saved me.

Still sitting, I turned around to be greeted by hysterical hoots of laughter from my mates (who incidentally hadn’t even bothered to try and help me up!) and looked desperately for my knight in shining armour so that I could thank him. But he had gone.

‘Where’d he go?’ I gasped at my mates, trying to stop the uncontrollable fits of laughter.

Unable to answer me through their own chortling they pointed into the distance at a solitary, dark figure running off into the night, no doubt off to save a few more damsels in distress.

On the 98 the other day I noticed a young guy. Dressed in obligatory grey combats and a tight black vest, he was sporting a highly coiffed barnet of black hair which had obviously been pain-stakingly styled with an abundance of jet-powered gel. I did the maths and estimated that this must have taken him a good 28 minutes to perfect. He’d been eyeing up a pretty petite blonde and winking at her, and when the time came for him to leave, he started walking towards the stairs, all the while flicking his mate’s head, ruffling his hair, possible in a vain bid to look ‘cool’ while ‘impressing’ the blonde. She didn’t look particularly impressed. As he disappeared down the stairs he decided to take one last ditch attempt to impress the blonde so he reversed up two stairs, pop his head up, smiled in a Dean Gaffney, ‘Hey Baby’ kind of way and waved at her. She looked bemused, he looked pleased with himself and promptly proceeded to trip down the last few stairs.

Most people would have been mortified by this, but I believe he walked off with a spring in his step regardless.

You see, some people think they’re the mutt’s nuts.

Whether they’re born with untold amounts of confidence or are taught to believe it is a mystery to me. Confidence is a funny thing. Too much and you become arrogant, too little and you suffer from low self-esteem.

I can empathise totally with the latter. Like most of the people I know I have a little bit of confidence which I tend to use sparingly. From time to time I can walk around with a slight swagger and a smug look on my face, but this is very rare and only happens when I really know my shit inside and out. It happens when I’m fully prepared for a presentation or I’m in a meeting where I am the known expert on the subject matter. It does not tend to happen in my general every day social life. So to make up for my shortcomings, in new or uncomfortable social situations, I over-compensate. I talk a mile a minute (without even stopping for breath) and my volume function ceases to work and remains on 120 decibels. I don’t like myself when I’m like this, but I am totally unable to stop myself.

Sometimes I just think it would be far better if those people who think they’re the dog’s bollocks could relinquish a smidge of their confidence and share it with those who have none. We could have an arrogance amnesty. A re-distribution of confidence the world over. Then again, it would be a boring world if there were no arrogant twats to laugh at.

7.30pm on a Thursday night and I was stuck in the office trying to sort out a minor catastrophe. My Print Buyer had long gone home like most normal people, so my only other option was to call the Dreamboat.

I pulled myself together, cleared my throat and dialed his number, half hoping he wouldn't answer so that I could just leave a message in my usual rambling style. I started daydreaming about him in his crisp navy, single breasted Boss suit. Mmmmmm.

On only the third ring my reverie was shattered...

He: Hi PPQ

Here we go. Butterflies. Escaped winged creatures. Thousands of them. All fluttering in my stomach.

Me: Umm Hi DB, I know it's terribly late, and it's awfully cheeky of me but I'm stuck and just wondered if you could help me out with x...y...z

He: Of course, it's no problem. What can I do for you?

What can you do for me? Well, for starters, there are those drinks we never had, then you could fall madly and desperately in love with me, ask me to marry you, and lastly, we could have lots of babies and live happily ever after...

Ahem. Obviously, it didn't pan out that way instead there followed a conversation of boring proportions re: specs and quantities and proof of deliveries. But also, peppered throughout to my delighted surprise, mutual teasing.

*Sigh*

Friends tell me to surrender the fantasy. He's married to his work and I apparently deserve someone who'll put me first and blah blah blah. But sometimes still, after a conversation like this, after all those butterflies (who quite frankly insist on invading my stomach whenever he's involved), I just think how lovely it would be if we ever did get to read those sunday papers together.

Approaching a jukebox in a pub, gold nugget grasped in my sweaty little mitt is met with much trepidation. Choosing songs on a jukebox in a public place? Scariest of scaries. The wrong choice could lead to bedlam so it's vital that I make the right selection. Generally I find that my jukebox formula tends to work; a couple of 'credible' choices, a contemporary song and if I'm feeling brave, just one piece of sugary pop. This done I then hoof it back to my table and hope that the serious muso in the corner does not recall seeing me when he groans audibly at my choices.

Still, I carry out my task with bravado because tucked away in a dusty corner in the murky recesses of my mind, there is a little memory which makes me giggle whenever I find myself about to make this very public admission of my music taste...I remember seeing a Punt & Dennis sketch on the Mary Whitehouse Experience, where a geeky looking guy walks gingerly up to the jukebox, makes his selection and skulks back to his seat. Then when Kylie's locomotion comes on, a great big neon arrow comes out of the sky pointing at him, so that all and sundry know that he chose that song.

And when I think about this excellent neon sign from above, I can't help but wonder about how this would be a great thing, not just when choosing jukebox selections but also in terms of love agendas.

Wouldn't life for singletons the world over be so much easier if a big, red, neon sign came out from the sky saying THIS IS THE ONE, when you met the person you were meant to be with...?

Ever since the ex-bastard broke up with me, pleading (after ten months) the ‘I’m not ready for a relationship’ defence, I have been single - the longest spell of singledom I’ve encountered since my love life started ten years ago. And while I haven’t managed to procure any dates (bar one excrutiatingly awkward blind date – another story, another blog post) I do realise that this is mostly my fault. The thing is I’m impetuous. I tell people how I feel about them almost immediately because I wear my heart on my sleeve (where it is easily trashed and wounded).

My immediate reaction to the break up was to do some serious duvet time. I lay holed up in my darkened room for days on end, listening to sad songs sung by mournful, tortured singers which I aptly named the ‘Loser no 6’ collection. I surfaced only for cups of tea, toilet breaks and the occasional hug from my worried house mate. My pajamas had become my uniform.

I can not recall what it was that snapped me out of it, but after about a week of duvet action, something in me broke. I jumped out of bed, soaked in the tub for hours (I’m gonna wash that man right out of my hair and what not), chose an upbeat CD to get dressed to, and I went to work. And I managed to do all of these simple every day tasks which had seemed so bloody difficult for the week previous, because I made a decision that day – no man was going to hurt me like that again. No sir.

For I, PPQ extraordinaire, was going to upgrade my poor battered, held-together-with-elastoplast-heart. I was going for the souped up, turbo, lead-lined heart with go faster stripes and a V8 engine. No man would plunder my heart anymore. Hence forth there would be rules. And those rules would be adhered to;

1) All men are to be kept at arm’s length
2) Don’t tell any man how you feel about them
3) Only go on a date if the man asks you – this way you at least know they’re interested in you
4) Get a stand-in boyfriend (i.e. a male friend who can attend functions etc with you when the invitation says 'and guest') in order to cope with the ex-bastard-shaped hole in your life

And this is how it’s been for the last two years. My love agenda has been barren, and with the exception of my school girl’s crush on the Dreamboat, I haven’t fancied a man in all that time. Friends and family have urged me to try speed dating, blind dates all sorts and while I feel I’m ready for a relationship (pull yourself together it’s been TWO YEARS!), the thought of dating just freaks me out.

I now worry that perhaps I was over zealous with the lead-lined heart, maybe I should have taken it for a test drive first. I mean hell, not even x-rays get through this leaden sucker, so now I’m thinking that maybe I should trade this one in for a semi-permeable-lead-lined-heart. At least that way, there’s a small chance of someone getting through...

And just as there are words which make me smile, there are also some heinous 'contributions' to the English language which I feel just shouldn't be allowed in everyday conversation.

In fact they just shouldn't be allowed, full stop.

I give you;

Gusset
Moist

Feel free to join in...answers on a postcard to the usual address (comment box)

*shudders and walks off shaking her head*

What with all this technology at my fingertips, my usual inquisitive self has been usurped by a leaner, meaner, and far far far scarier mark II. Yes, this ParanoidPromQueen has realised that the once innocent thirst for information has grown tenfold. Now, the cutesy curiosity has morphed into a beast...with full-on stalking potential.

Webstalkin', subterfuge, gleaning information from people, wry questions...my behaviour has restraining order written all over it.

And what makes it worse, is that I work like a stealth bomber creeping around unnoticed, because frankly, who would suspect such a short and innocent (ahem) looking person like me is trying to find out morsels of information about them?

I feel wretched.

Well, at least I did for a couple of days. And then I found consolation in two things;

1) Someone else I know admitted that they google search other people's names too.
2) Even though I'm planning some publicity events for a lovely author whom I've mentioned (somewhat sycophantically) in my blog before, and even though I have a huge crush on him and his Publicity guys have armed me with his two week publicity schedule (complete with home address, hotel addresses etc - the fools!) I have remained totally unwilling to further throw myself into this seedy world of infatuation.

Even my webstalkin' tendencies have limits...at least I would never turn into a physical stalker. Camera in sweaty hand as I lay camouflaged amongst foliage outside stalkee's house! Now that would be scary!

sometimes
i wish i could be
afloat on the sea
on my own private floating island
hundreds of miles away from land
bobbing along calmly in no particular direction
I would refuse entry to everyone
except those lonely hearts and tired souls
the disconsolate
yes
they would be welcome
and I would make them cups of tea
with extra special love
shower them with unwavering affection
and offer them solace
for here there would be no lies
and no disguises

2.37am and I am lying in my bed, eyes frisbee-wide as the blue hue from the clock on my hi-fi glares at me. Frankly, I can not remember a time when those numbers have looked so big, in fact they are about 3 foot tall and are practically shouting at me. Added to this I have noticed that this unnatural neon light has seemingly lit my up my room so much so that I could probably read a book without even turning my lamp on.

Right, don't look at the clock anymore. Don't let it know you're watching, and that it's winning I tell myself. Thankfully I only suffer what I call sporadic insomnia. Lord knows what I'd be like if I was inflicted with this ALL the time. Perish the thought.

Right, don't think. Don't think about anything. Your mind is a blank void. No more no less.

3.11am I keep my eyes shut. It would be easier to get into a fair maiden's chastity belt with a kerbi grip than to pry these peepers open. But as for thinking about nothing, I'm fighting a losing battle. All sorts of images are popping into my head. Danny Wallace is stopping by to ask me to Join him, The DB looks stunning as he smiles at me suggestively, the dusky pink bridesmaid dress I was fitted for on Saturday, my stripy notebook that I use for work with it's 3-page-to-do list, hell, even the bowl of noodles I had for my tea earlier that evening.

For God's sake woman, I said, DON'T THINK. And whatever you do, don't look at the clock again.

3.13 am Dammit, it's no use. My resolve lasted all of 2 minutes. What should I do now? If I get up now and read, or even write, then I definitely won't get to sleep. But if I lie here like this, I'll keep checking the clock and I'll notice all these little things that are bothering me...

4.02am I can hear the tap in the kitchen dripping. Twoip twoip twoip. I swear it's deliberately getting louder just to piss me off. Now I can hear Myrtle, the ancient old lady and fellow insomniac who lives above us, wandering around her flat, obviously looking for something to keep her mind off the fact that she can't sleep. Sheesh, for such a slight thing she doesn't half make a ton of noise. Mr Snuffulupicus could move around more quietly.

4.22am It's no good, I have to be up in two hours and 38 minutes. There's no point, I am defeated.
I know, I'll just lie here and pretend that I'm playing Dead Lions. Then I'll get up and have a shower.

As a spunky youngster, I was headstrong and had big plans. No ordinary life for me. No sir. I wanted a high flying career as a fighter pilot or an underwater archeologist, and no one or nothing was going to stop me.

Well, at least I was almost sure that no one and nothing would stop me...

...that was, until I was told by a friend who'd been to an RAF open day that the chauvinistic bastard taking the seminars had said;

"Women couldn't possible be allowed to be fighter pilots because when the plane is inverted their skirts would go over their heads and they wouldn't be able to see anything."

The underwater archeologist dream died a watery and bloody death after I was subjected to watching Jaws films by my brothers.

So at the meagre age of 12, I wondered the earth feeling as if my life had no purpose, and that I was soul-less. A heavy load for such a young 'un.

But one day, as I sat in the shared sitting room at my all girl's boarding school and we all tried to rack up the highest number of correct answers to the questions that the then god-like Bob Holness was throwing at the sixth form Blockbusters contestants, it came to me. Like a bolt out of the blue, a gift from the heavens, it came to me...

A new ambition: I will go on Blockbusters. Oh yes, I will go on Blockbusters.

Years passed. My ambition grew quietly and began to seep through my veins until one day when I was 17, I noticed a gaggle of over-excited fellow pupils squawking and shrieking with glee. All huddled around our sixth form notice board, I gently pushed my way through the crowd to find the letter from Central television inviting students from OUR school to audition for Blockbusters. This was it. A sign. A calling. This was my moment.

I auditioned and out of ten girls was the only one to be selected. I spent almost 7 days with 20 or so other sixth formers as we filmed 5 shows a day and got to stay in an hotel in Nottingham (with padlocked mini bars).

As a solo I beat the reigning champions (arrogant little fuckers they were too), went on to arse up my gold run, and then horror of horrors, had to face my new friends Chris & Jonathan in the next round. Chris and I had become firm friends in the 3 days we were there together, and their collective intellect just staggered me. We didn't want to face each other on the battlefield because it would invariably mean fighting to the proverbial death (my real reason being that I didn't want to go out in flames as they answered question after question and humiliated me further with each correct ping they got). But the inevitable happened. I was knocked out of the competition, while they went on to win 5 gold runs and a trip to the Rockies (good on them).

I was presented with my Blockbuster encyclopedia and t-shirt and a cheque for 105 new pounds and packed off back to school. As the train rattled through the lush green countryside, I realised that with my only ambition fulfilled, there was a void in my soul once more.

This has since troubled me for some ten years now and I've found myself making things up when asked the dreaded question. But last night over dinner with a relatively new buddy of mine, I admitted that I perhaps, maybe, possibly had one more ambition.

He: What are your ambitions?

Me: Well...errrmmm...ahhh...okay I'll admit it...my biggest ambition is to have kids....
(waiting for him to start screaming and shouting ALL MEN EVACUATE, THERE'S A WOMAN WHO WANTS KIDS IN OUR MIDST...RUN...RUN FOR YOUR LIVES BEFORE SHE TRAPS YOU)

He: Well I think that's really honest and noble. You know a lot of people have the same ambition but would never admit it.

Me: speechless

Not the grandest ambition I admit, but my buddy was right, it is an honest one, and it's one that'll never change. And now I'm not ashamed to admit it.

You just know that things are pretty dire when you get in to work to find an anonymously donated, gleaming new copy of the Art of Seduction on your desk.

And you just know that you're looking hot (ahem!) when a passing stranger - who looks not unlike a resident from the local mad house - looks you up and down and says
'Hi sexy' with saucer-sized crazywideeyes.

So there I am on the 98, a dismal Tuesday morning after a lovely bank holiday weekend, feeling, well, you know the feeling that not even the phrase 'anti-climax' sums up correctly? It's grey outside, the heavens have opened up and the gods have decided to have a little laugh at us mere mortals as they chuck god-sized buckets of cold, cold rain on us. As I sit down at my war-torn desk and log in, I have a peculiar feeling of foreboding, not unlike the fear you get when you're a schoolkid and you're shitting yourself because you haven't done your homework. On top of this, I've been bemoaning my single status/lack of action on the lurrve agenda to myself and wondering whether the DB will ever call and re-arrange those drinks. And the icing on the cake, I'm wondering what the hell I'm doing with my life. Oh yes, the triple whammy.

This is not good. I'm pretty much miserable and it's only 8.42am.

And then...then...I read this...Andre's winning it seems.

I can't help but smile.

There used to be a time when I could talk myself into a funk, far more easily than I could talk myself out of one. But this about turn has made me wonder if things are looking up.