i have this dream of you and me
driving around in your car not always knowing
where it is we’re going
we laugh and talk
about nothing
and about everything
we end up together for the rest of our days
but this is just a dream
in reality I’m not sure where I am
when I’m with you
at times I feel as though this dream of mine
will come true
that we could be so good together
yet just as quickly as I feel this fleeting optimism
it is dashed
one minute the consummate professional
one minute the man who sets free the myriad butterflies
in my stomach even though you swing
from your Jekyl to your Hyde
i still sit wide eyed
with the sticky candy-palmed contentment
of a chubby bloated child

Picture the scene...

The wee hours of the morning and a group of merry makers are stumbling out of a lovely little bar in Soho, having celebrated someone's birthday. Delicious (and ridiculously cheap) food in Chinatown, excellent banter and copious amounts of alcohol and everyone is happy.

I espy a random man holding a picture of a melon, mounted on a stick (for easy grip purposes I presume?). At that point, I can't think of anything else, I want the melon stick.

PPQ (shouting in drunken voice): Hey, can I have your melon stick, I want your melon stick?

Melon Man: No, it's mine

PPQ: Awww come one, purleeeease?

Melon Man (looking distraught and taking cover, crouched by a car): Noooooo, that woman wants my melons

Melon Man's distress was apparent, and I couldn't bear to be the cause any longer, so I left the poor man alone.

Our happy gang proceeded to head towards bus stops, some of us paraphrasing Baby got Back by Sir Mix a lot, for something FAR ruder.

A good night was had by all.

Of course, up until this morning when my buddy reminded me, I had no recollection of the aforementioned incident. But I just had to write it down for posterity, because this is happy drunken behaviour and that's the type of drunken behaviour that needs to be remembered. Not the humiliating, toe-curling, self loathing stuff.

I've only ever been on one date (and what a disaster that was), at least, I thought I'd ever only been on one date, until I started questioning the definition of a date.

My string of monogamous relationships all have one thing in common, we met through friends, had a drunken snog and went out with each other. There was no courting, dating or wooing. It was a five step plan, and it was clean and simple;

1) Get introduced
2) Get drunk
3) Chat
4) Snog
5) Next time you meet, decide that you're now boyfriend and girlfriend

Hence my lack of experience in the dating arena.

So imagine my chagrin when on finding that when it comes to a definition of dating, it's a murky messy quagmire. But that's okay, I had some funky galoshes and a pair of fetching waders, and I was prepared to dive in.

The problem lies in that different people define it as different things. To illustrate, when I found myself in lovely company last night in a rowdy pub in London I asked the question, what is a date?

Malefriend1: I'd say it's when one or both of the parties have considered the topic of snogging/not snogging

Malefriend2: Nodding

Malefriend3: But some people would define a social meeting of two people from the opposite sex as a date

PPQ: See, I would say that a date was when both of you were aware that there was the potential for some sort of romantic involvement

Female Friend: Me too

You see my confusion? According to this little discussion, I've either been a dating mogul, the Hugh Heffner of dating if you will, OR I'm a dating virgin.

So, feeling like I was still in the dark without even my trusty, 99p purple torch from Woolies to guide the way, I did a little further investigating and looked it up on Urban dictionary. And what I can tell you is that I'm none the wiser, especially having read definition number 2!

I have a friend, Bride 2 Be (B2B) whom I have known since I was ten and I love her hugely. We have grown up, grown apart and found each other again.

Together we’ve been naughty, laughed like kids on way too much tartrazine, had our first cigarette together, fought puberty head on, sailed the choppy seas of adolescence, and been through some tough times together.

Now B2B is getting married.

I’m excited for her.

Hugely excited.

Her fiancé is just lovely, her wedding dress will be fabulous, she will look devastatingly gorgeous in it and she has two bridesmaids (me included) who will look resplendent in dusky pink silk. Oh yes, she is going to have the fairy tale wedding in Florence and it will be perfect.

But I think all this talk of holy matrimony may just be addling her brain. You see, even though we are both only 28 and I try to convince myself every day that it’s okay for me still to be single because I’m still young, she has started to act like my pimp. Well that’s a little harsh actually, let me re-phrase that...she’s acting like a worried mother with a single, unmarried spinster daughter who is almost on the shelf. Let me explain...

Not so long ago at her fiance’s birthday lunch at a gorgeous pub in Hampstead, she turned to her cousin and said

B2B: Cousin dear, we need to help PPQ find a man - do you have any lovely single male friends?

He: Errm, yeah I do, what's the brief we're working to?

B2B: Well, just someone who's intelligent and funny and good looking. You know PPQ’ll be a brilliant mother and would make an excellent home-maker!

Whoa there Nelly! Call me crazy but isn’t that the type of thing they used to say in the fifties? I mean, seriously, how am I meant to find a guy with that sort of write up? Surely that’s an instant repellent – a woman who wants to nest and have babies?! Couldn’t she have said that I’m funny, or that I’m mean at table football, love a drink at the pub? Couldn't she have, in the very least, paraphrased Jerry Hall and told him that I'm a chef in the kitchen and a whore in the bedroom?!

I shot a worried glance at her, we caught each other’s eyes and then just burst into big, hefty laughter. Because while some people may have thought she was being a little presumptuous trying to fob me off on anyone who would have me, I realised that she just wants me to have a little share of the happiness that she has. And you can't say fairer than that.

Come rain or shine, he’ll make it to work.

His is a tiresome job, 9-5 Monday to Saturday and he can’t even remember the last time he took a day off sick.

Some would find the strain of the hustle and bustle of Oxford Street and the solitary nature of his job just a little too much to bear, some even think he’s a little crazy for continuing this thankless task day after day but every morning when he wakes up, he knows what to do. Every morning he smiles a wry smile to himself as he goes about his daily rituals of showering, dressing and eating, because deep down his job grants him satisfaction. Every morning he feels safe in the knowledge that if even one person listens to him and makes some small changes in their life, then his arduous occupation has been worth it.

Today he goes about his morning routine with more vigour than usual. He is somewhat excited. Today he will be training someone else and although they will have to go about their work separately there is always time to catch up over tea breaks and lunch.

He dresses in his ‘uniform’ of t-shirt, shorts and jesus creepers with socks, wolfs down his breakfast, kisses his wife goodbye, grabs his megaphone and makes his way to work.

When he arrives at Oxford Street, Junior is there to meet him, wide-eyed-eager and enthusiastic to learn from a professional. Junior has a respect for him, he looks up to him, seeks affirmation. He carries his not-so-megaphone (the smaller size emphasising his junior ranking) with pride.

They have a quick chat. He gives Junior a few words of encouragement, some seasoned pointers and arranges a time and a place for their next meeting - a hrad-earned tea break in just over three hours.

There is a slight crackling sound as they turn on their megaphones, and off they head in separate directions to spread the word of the lord, to help mankind find the path to salvation.

Do you wanna be a sinner, or do you wanna be a winner?



*Although based on real-life Oxford Street characters, this post is fictional and does not, in any way portray the views or beliefs, religious or otherwise, of the author

I had to go into hospital for a minor operation yesterday. Nothing too serious you understand, but something which required general anaesthesia (*sigh*). I think it’s brilliant that these days most hospitals have a day surgery unit which means they ship you in first thing, gown and dope you up, do the business, bring you back to the real world and then cart you off again all within twelve hours.

I duly followed my instructions;
1) No drinking or eating after midnight prior to your operation – check
2) Don’t bring any valuables with you – check
3) Don’t bring any money with you – check
4) Arrange for someone to come and pick you up – check

I took my cheapest bag which I wouldn’t mind losing if the organised gang of thieves (which they’d like to have you believe run the roost at hospitals) nicked it. I took my cheap, back up watch and a mass market fiction, easy read paperback which was also totally unsuitable seeing that its subject matter was an evil surgeon who was performing illegal and inhumane experiments on scores of young men.

So I got to the hospital with 30p to my name after having carried only enough money to pay the cab driver, and I went to the day surgery ward. On arrival, I was asked to wear one of those excellent hospital gowns and some rather fetching anti-embolism stockings. Complete with my flip flops, I felt like a twisted geisha. I sat down to read my book, I wasn’t due to go into theatre until about 1pm.

And SHIT, I only finished my book at 10am. No money to buy any mags, or another book. But, hey, what's this? My luck might be turning, here's my saviour Patientline.

Patientline, an advance in patient care and technology. Unbelievable, a sleek looking flat screen TV, radio, telephone and internet access in ONE! No probs I thought, this would be great. I could catch some crappy day time tv, call up some mates, listen to Chelsea & Westminster Hospital FM, heeey I could even write a blog post about the hunky surgeons strutting around the place. I was getting quite excited about the whole thing. But just as I was deciding to myself what I was going to do first I realised that you needed bastarding money to run the damn thing. A minimum of £3.50. Foiled. Seems that everyone’s out to get your money. EVEN when you’re sick in hospital.

I fought the urge to start bawling like a child whose balloon had just been popped by an older kid with a sharp implement. There was nothing left for it, I threw the scant blanket over myself, turned on my side and caught some zeds instead.

The DB and I finally had our drinks last week and I had a genius time. We laughed and bantered and laughed some more, exchanged stories and theories, and as amateur as I am at this game, I may have even detected some flirting.

How come you can go for years without remotely fancying someone, without even a sniff of someone registering on your romance radar, and then all of a sudden WHAM. One day you meet someone who you fancy hopelessly and utterly, but who you know deep down is totally unsuitable?

I read somewhere that you can’t help who you fall in love with and if that’s the case then I’m in trouble because I have a string of unsuitable ex-boyfriends behind me, and I just never seem to learn.

The DB is great and all, but somehow as relentless as these butterflies and my crush are I somehow get the feeling that regardless of our Sunday paper reading potential, that he’s not right for me. He’s too good looking for me, too self assured and he has CONFIDENCE. In short, he is all the things that I am not, and I’m not sure that allows for compatability.

I spoke to my Ma the other day, bless her, and even though she’s over 6000 miles away and she’s been unwell, she does that thing that mums always do; care for everyone else before themselves. Despite my asking her tons of questions, all she wanted to do was talk about me. She asked about my love life, something I find quite difficult discussing with either of my folks due to my asian background and hence their old fashioned beliefs, but she had the decency to ask, so I was honest.

PPQ’s Mum: So are there any boyfriends at the moment? (Note the sweet optimism that she thinks that there could be more than one!)

PPQ: Nah. But there is this guy who I like, I’m hoping to go out for drinks with him soon. He’s funny and generous and clever.

PPQ’s Mum: Well, that’s something.

PPQ: Yeah, but I’m lonely Ma. I’m worried I’m going to end up alone.

PPQ’s Mum: Well, you shouldn’t worry about it sweetheart, I know it’ll all be okay. If this one’s not right then you’ll find someone who’s just right for you. I’m sure of it.

And let’s face it. Mums always know best right?

I’ve never been into football. Given the choice I would happily sit in the pub with a pint and watch the rugby, but I just never found footy very interesting. With all the footy mania going on right now, I got to thinking about this and I think there are several reasons.

1. It’s all very theatrical, the way the players ham up a bad tackle throwing themselves in to a heap on the floor, clutching their ankle/knee and feigning tears. Yet as soon as a physio turns up with a wet sponge they’re jumping back on their feet and running around with the rest of the team. Rugger buggers take all sorts of beatings, stampings, yet they just brush the dirt off their knees and get back in the game without tears

2. It makes men turn into thugs. You don’t get organised rugby fan thuggery, why then do you get BNP style, skinhead violence with footy?

3. Footy is so seedy. There’s always some sort of scandal with prostitutes, adultery, alleged rapes. Ergo in terms of potential boyfriends, I’d rather find myself going out with a rugby player than a footballer

Regardless of all this, I find myself getting quite interested by all the Euro 2004 fever that’s pulsing all over the place. There’s a big chart on our kitchen wall which should tell me who’s still in the game, there are flags flying out of cabbie windows and on proud patriotic houses, and I have even entered the sweepstake at work. Okay, admittedly I got Greece and I’m not too confident that I’m in with a chance, but I do know that they won their first game against Portugal. I even watched that match yesterday which is a first.

Now I find myself getting a little excited about England v France...so…there may just be hope for me yet.

Now, if someone could just explain the off side rule just one last time…

I'm too much with myself, I wanna be someone else.

I think it was Holly GoLightly who coined the phrase, the mean reds and I reckon everyone suffers from it. Someone asked me what I meant when I used the term recently so to put it simply, it's IPS, Irritable personality syndrome. For some unknown reason you feel scratchy and snarky and just down right grumpy. It knows no colour and doesn't discriminate between sexes. No one knows why it happens or whether there's a cause and just as quickly as it descends on you, it can disappear.

The mean reds.

Now heaven help the unfortunate man who encounters a woman with the double whammy of the mean reds AND PMT. Hell hath no fury...

Col, my housemate made the misguided decision to take the piss out of me when I was doubled up in agony AND suffering the double dose.

Col: See it's all right for girls, they can pull a sickie every month and claim it's their period".

Poor misguided fool. Obviously I went ballistic and steam was actually jetting out of my ears...

PPQ: Yadah yadee yadah haemorrhaging blah blah blah you try it yadee yadah it's not a barrel of fun etc etc.

Obviously, this tirade was far more detailed and graphic and needless to say he went beetroot.
Hah, that'll learn him.

So my mood carried on like this for a couple of days. But two things really lifted me...one was my blog mentor's advice re: my bout of writer's block, and the other was my Unlucky buddy's response to my terse e-mails yesterday...

PPQ: What in HELL'S NAME is WRONG with HALOSCAN?????!!!!! Sorry, must be the pmt!

Unlucky: No, I don't think your PMT can be responsible for Haloscan going tits up. It's much more likely to be due to some technical problem.

Laugh? I nearly shat my pants!

(With deepest most abject apologies to Derek & Clive for theft of material)

Pop quiz at work...

MW: Marshmallow biscuity thing

KC: Coconut macaroon

TH: Chocolate Hob nob

ZW: Jammy Dodger

PPQ: Mcvities Digestive (because sometimes, the simplest things are the best)

Of course, it all gets a bit difficult when people ask you difficult questions, like;

"What do you mean by what biscuit would I be? Do you mean what's my favourite biscuit, or which biscuit is most like my personality?"

and

"Well, do you class a twix or a tea cake as a biscuit?"

Errrm, no, yes, dunno. Oh arse, how do I know? It was just a silly question...

I am suffering from writer’s block.

Consequently, I have been rather remiss this past week, my blog and it’s readers have been neglected and my posts have been sporadic. There is so much going on right now which means I have plenty of material, but every time I try, words fail me. I sit here staring at the blank screen thoughts and ideas crashing and swirling about in my mind like a tropical cyclone, fingers at the ready, idly typing a series of letters which don’t actually form any coherent words or sentences. The frustration at finding myself inarticulate like this is ineffable.

You see, I have always loved words and I guess you could even go so far as to say that they were my first love. I love the way certain words sound as they roll off your tongue, the way they look as you put pen to paper and use your best hand writing. I marvel at finding new words and re-discovering those that I had forgotten I knew. And I find great pleasure in trying to string words together to form a decent sentence to convey everything that I mean and more.

As a youngster I used to spend my free time with my nose in a book, devouring them at a rate of knots, always hungry for more books to read. If I ran out of books, I would turn my hand at writing my own stories, fantastical tales of mermaids, and Princes and hooded druid masters. Back then at ten years old I dreamt big dreams of writing novels that everyone would read. My English assignments at schools were taken very seriously and I would imagine up characters and situations that were beyond the confines of my own petty life. But these days I lack the confidence or conviction to even attempt to follow my oldest ambition of being a writer.

That’s one of the reasons why I started this blog. One of my dearest friends suggested it as a means for me to get practice writing every day and to try and gain some confidence. I’ll be frank, I was dubious at first, but now I’m so glad I did it. I have found inspiration in other people’s blogs along the way, found some blog buddies to banter with and get advice from and best of all, with every post I write I feel a little bit better.

Now that my insomnia has been kept at bay (touch wood) for a few days, I just need to get over this dreaded block. And I just need to work on finding that ten year old with the big dreams again…I know she’s there somewhere.

Amongst my social circle I am rather well known for retaining vast amounts of incredibly useless trivia…lobsters are monogamous, men’s ears and noses get bigger the older they get, Dannii Minogue’s character in Home and Away was called Emma, Mork & Mindy was a spin off from Happy Days, Sharks are more likely to attack women over men yadeee yadah yadah. Added to this, I am an obligatory team member during the pop music/celebrity round at the pub quiz.

I know I’m 28 now and all grown up but in times of need when my bottomless pit of useless info won't suffice, I turn to my Big Brother Senior (thus called because I have two older brothers, henceforth referred to as Big Bro Snr and Big Bro Jnr), and every time I do, I am struck with awesome wonder. He can do cryptic crosswords, he knows the definitions of obscure words, he knows symptoms and illnesses…in short, the man knows everything. He’s my oracle.

Last week his role took on a completely new dimension, that of philosopher.

I overheard a conversation he was having with an old friend. It was going nowhere. They searched desperately for an outcome, a happy compromise, some way to end this so that both parties were satisfied. In desperation the friend said something, to which my Big Bro Snr replied;

“Your logic is taking me to places I’ve never been before”.

Now to some, this was a stupid remark. To me, it was genius. This remark, together with his look of total befuddlement summed up the epic conversation.

And then whilst discussing my wish list for birthday pressies, he floored me again.

PPQ: I know what you’re gonna say but I reeeeeheeeeallly want an ipod

Big Bro Snr: I knew it. First it was a discman, that lasted two years, then it was a minidisc, and now it’s an ipod. I knew this would come.

PPQ: But I’ve had my minidiscman for nearly 4 years, it’s falling apart and if I had an ipod I wouldn’t have to constantly make compilations and remember to carry more than one disc around with me. I could have my ENTIRE CD collection on me ALL THE TIME!

Big Bro Snr: Yeah well, you shoulda thought about that when you got your minidisk, you shouldn’t have bought it. You shoulda just waited and used your money towards an ipod.

PPQ: How was I supposed to know that someone would invent a piece of portable music genius when I bought my minidisc? I mean THAT was pretty innovative. I’m not an inventor, how was I to know the beautiful ipod would come along?

Big Bro Snr: Well, you should just be like me, doesn’t take much to make me happy. I don’t have loads of possessions - I’m not into material things.

PPQ: So much so that you’re wearing the same top you wore when we went to the pub last week.

Big Bro Snr: Yeah well sis, I leave a small footprint on this earth.

And you can’t very well argue with a line like that!