I was seriously beginning to think that some higher power was trying to tell me that this trip to Italy for B2B’s wedding was not meant to be.

Along the way the wedding party has encountered all kinds of hurdles and it was all beginning to reach comedic proportions with us all waiting for Jeremy Beadle to jump out.

One of the three bridesmaids dropped out
I couldn’t get a visa to Italy
The wedding planner and her husband separated
The credit card which was to finance this whole trip of mine got lost
Neither of us two surviving bridesmaids could find the right colour gold shoes
B2B and her fiancé had their luggage lost for them on the way to Florence
My date dropped out
My fluffy, pink bridesmaid dress is all of a sudden too big for me

But it’s okay.

A few sessions of laughter therapy and deep breathing has helped all involved put the whole thing into perspective.

The most important people will be there and it doesn’t matter what we will be wearing (including B2B), because this is a celebration of B2B and Groom to Be’s love and commitment to each other. And what could be more important than that?

So…

I’ve done a handover at work, briefed my Print Buyer, made sure there is money in the rent/bills account and chucked out any fresh stuff in the fridge that is likely to have grown 98 different mould cultures (surely one will contain a cure for some unpronounceable ailment).

And in true PPQ style, I have left all my packing to the very last minute (I’ll never learn).

My old school friend (who shall hence forth be referred to as Pfeiffer due to her passing resemblance to Michelle) and I have planning a week of culture, sun, stallion-watching and of course plenty of booze and food.

And I have duly packed my set square and protractor so that on the way back I can find out just how much that Tower of Pisa is leaning.

So sod this for a game of soldiers, I’m off to Florence for a big old wedding. Look after each other and I'll see y’all in a week.

I don't like Mondays.

It's bad enough that suffering from insomnia means that facing a Monday morning is exponetially more difficult than usual.

That I've seen the turning of every hour of the previous night on my illuminated clock.

It's bad enough that I get out of bed without an ounce of ability to decide what to wear to work.

And it's pretty rough still that I have to fit a weeks work into one day because of an away day and (on the upside) a holiday.

All of the above is tough going.

But as I clamber onto the top deck of the 98 with my yoga kit and someone is sitting smugly in my favourite seat I like to think that, unusally, even though I'm in a pretty big funk by now, I'm taking all of this in my stride.

At least I was.

Because the worst thing is ahead of me...

...the worst thing of all is the fact that as I manage to get to the back of the top deck and find a seat, I have the misfortune to be sitting next to a FUCK-NOSED, TIT-FACED, BASTARDING WANKER of MOTHERFUNSTERING proportions. A slight-bodied DINKUS, who at all of 5foot11 and ooh about 12 stone thinks he needs to spread his legs akimbo and take up all of his seat AND two thirds of my seat while I'm sitting on it.

Come on you fuckstick, you're not that big and you're certainly not cool.

Now Sweet Jesus someone get me to an anger management counseller before I beat this man with my new handbag.

My thang for the Dreamboat continues to crush me.

I wake thinking of him, and when sleep finally comes to me, I dream of him.

Friends tell me to either give it up or say something to him and I feel myself being totally ineffectual and unable to do either.

Because the former would be nigh on impossible - I tried to give up on my dream of him several times and I ended up walking around with this deluded bravado.

And to tell him would  just be foolish. Put myself on the line? Take a chance? Risk my heart again? Not a chance. I refer you to my new rules, which were set up in the interests of self-preservation.

Q: So what does that leave me with?
A: Typical PPQ behaviour... Too scared to take a chance on him, and in the meantime no one else gets a look in.

I have a knack of sabotaging my own life.

28 years on and I still haven't found a way around it, but it's the only way I know.

At this rate, I am going to end up a cat lady.

I have never managed to read any Irvine Welsh for one simple reason. I can not understand that accented writing he chooses to use. Quite frankly I think I’d have a better chance of understanding ancient Aramaic than the thick, Glaswegian dialect that he writes in.
 
This weekend though, I managed to read some Irvine Welsh which made sense to me - he spouted some utter gems in Sunday’s edition of This Much I Know.
 
“It’s impossible to conceive of living without love. Or just not having the anticipation of it. Unless you’re a bit dysfunctional, or really unlucky – I think love is a certainty. At some point. For everybody.”
 
Utter relief washed over me on reading this.
 
Because recently I have been worrying about it a great deal.
 
I don’t think I need to be going out with someone to be complete.
I don’t even think that I’m broken because I’m single.
 
I just think I work better when I’m loved up.
 
These past couple of weeks have been real toughies, and I’m not entirely sure why its starting to happen now after what I thought were two years of pretty hard work convincing myself that I was enjoying a single life. Maybe it’s the two year itch? Maybe there’s an eclipse of the sun due, or some other celestial phenomena? Who knows what the reason is?
 
All I can tell you is that like pretty much everyone else, I have my demons, and I think they are beginning to stalk me again.
 
When I was with the ex-bastard, I managed to keep the demons at bay. They were too scared to come near me, shrinking whenever they got close to me, flinching as if I was the sunlight to their vampires.
 
Recently though they have found their courage to approach me more frequently. I’m sure I catch a glimpse of them, loitering around corners, following me. Waiting, watching, whispering.
 
Their favourite trick of all is to whisper sweet words of doubt into my ear just as I drift off to sleep, so that when I wake up in the morning with what should be the fresh optimism of a new day, I am instead reluctant to rise. And so I burrow further into my duvet and hope that the day passes me by, without anyone noticing my absence.
 
I try to ward them off with positive thoughts, and the anticipation of love. But it’s getting bloody hard, because these days I’m finding it hard to even convince myself of all that.
 
So thank fuck for Irvine’s words. I shall mutter his word’s over and over when my demons sidle up beside me. His words will prevent me from thinking that I’m going to end up sitting all alone in a rocking chair with nothing but my crochet and my cats to keep me company.

 Irvine’s words shall serve as a talisman for me from now on.

Like many people I have a very long (s)hit list (another time, another post), but if there's one thing I can not abide, it's lying.

Little white lies I can almost cope with.
Massaging the truth is also acceptable.

But no good, bastarding, outright, bare-faced, lying really gets my goat.

My mama taught me that lies always catch up with you in the end...

Ranting Lady: (Voice all a quiver) Just move the bus will you? Make it MOVE.

Bus driver: (mumbling) I'm doing the best I can.

Ranting Lady: (Now screaming in near hysterical voice) SOME of us have to get to WORK. JUST MOVE THE BLOODY BUS. MOVE IT NOW. OR I'll REPORT ALL OF YOU.

Sheesh!

Okay, granted, the bus driver was going a little slow sure, but I don't know what the rest of us had done to upset ranting lady.

More to the point, who did hse think she was going to report us fellow passengers to and what for?

I've heard of road rage...but bus passenger rage?

Come on.

I kicked a boy.

Errm, well, I didn’t actually kick a boy, but I had a disagreement with one.

It was Saturday and it was Bride 2 Be’s (B2B) hen night, and the eight of us hens were in town. This was not one of those cheesy, over-whelmingly, cringe-worthy hen nights and by special request there were no strippagrams, and no penis paraphernalia. Instead we had posh cocktails followed by a delectable meal, an hilarious limo ride (the only cheesy but oh-so fun part of the night) and then a bit of grooving at Madame Jo Jo’s.

It was all going swimmingly well and everyone was having FUN.

That is until my fellow bridesmaid had an innocent dance and a bit of tonsil tennis with a guy on the dance floor. In her defence she thought she was having a dance. We could all see her from where we were, there was nothing untoward happening, but she was starting to look a little uncomfortable, so we all dove right in and began to dance around her in protection formation.

The Guy turned all Neanderthal on her and began to follow her around the dance floor but every time he neared her, our little circle of protection only got tighter. His disturbing behaviour continued for another half an hour or so and then he did something quite menacing. While Bridesmaid was walking towards us on the raised seating area, Arsehole grabbed her ankle from the dance floor below. She shook him off fiercely and came and sat with us. Ten minutes later, he climbed up from the dance floor, over the barriers, sat but two feet away from us and stared at her.

I was incredulous. And then livid.

Now in my mind, a quick snog and a twirl on the dance floor do not a life time commitment make, but for some reason this arsehole thought that shoving his tongue down a girl’s throat meant that he had some sort of claim on her.

He didn’t budge and he was staring her down. Now I was seething.

I walked up to him calmly and with another friend standing by me for support, said to him in a quiet but firm voice;

PPQ: Do you actually think it’s okay to go around stalking people like this?

Arsehole: (nonchalantly) Yes

PPQ: Well, I don’t know where you’re from, but that sort of thing is not okay. You can’t go around treating people like this, following them around and grabbing them. It’s not okay. Who do you think you are?

Arsehole: (threateningly) Who do you think you are?

PPQ: I don’t think I’m anyone, but then I sure as hell don’t follow people around and grab then and touch them when they don’t want me to. You’d better go now or I’m going to report you to the managers or the police.

Arsehole: Go on then.

I didn’t of course. Instead I stood there for what seemed like hours but in reality was only about five minutes, psyching him out. I told Bridesmaid that she was not to move or go anywhere until he left. He had to go first because otherwise he would think he had won.

And we stared at him and waited.

And he turned around to face the dance floor.

And we waited some more.

And he had a cigarette.

And we waited a little bit more.

And finally, he left.

The arsehole.

A while back I had a rib-tickling conversation with my Unlucky buddy.
About Norah Jones being perfect wife material.

It was a bit of an eye-opener for me because I WAS NOT prepared for the intricate detail in which he had thought out their future together. I mean, I realise that women think about perfect husband material quite a lot, and have planned their wedding day, their city home and pied a terre in the country with meticulous precision, but I'd often thought that men were a little less...errrm...picky.

My perfect husband material was always Pacey from Dawson's Creek. Kind and generous. Tough but romantic. A talent for self-deprecating humour. Dark hair, dark eyes and big, big hands.
*Sigh*
But Channel 5 made the fatal error of bad scheduling and moved Dawson's Creek to the ridiculous 10am on Saturday slot. Jokers.

So I moved on. Now, I have a huge thing for Nigel Harman.
Huge.
Bubs and I even have a mini shrine to him at home.
The fridge.
It's covered in Nigel pictures, lovingly cut out from various gossip mags.

Now, when I get up and make my first cuppa tea of the day, I see Nige, flashing his pearly whites at me and I fantasise about bumping into him in a pub and catching his gaze, and him falling madly in love with me. Then we'd have a dream wedding, live in a house that our mates Kirstie and Phil had found for us, oh and we'd have two beautiful kids.

But the other day, I realised that I'd have to issue Nige with his first written warning. Because just over six months ago, in preparation for Bubs birthday, I did my research , duly wrote a humourous postcard and sent it (with my SAE) off c/o the Beeb, kindly asking for a signed photo of the man himself.

The Eastenders website had forewarned that getting a signed photo may take a while.
Please be patient when waiting for your reply. Some actors take longer than others, so we can't tell you exactly how long it will take.

Well I can understand that. I gave it a few weeks, and I started to get a little impatient. I practically bit the postman's arm off every day, in the vain hope that it may have arrived.

Six months later, and it still hasn't.

So, I shall be sending Nigel his first written warning. Because that sort of behaviour, well, it's just rude isn't it?

Is anyone ever really themselves anymore?

I got to thinking about this the other day after a conversation with some friends.

Mate: So how was your night, did you have fun?

PPQ: Oh definitely, it was a great night and everyone was funny and lovely, but I didn’t really feel like I was on top form, that maybe I didn’t give the real me

The real me?
Hang on, let’s back up there a second.
If that wasn’t me in there that night, who was it? And were they a better me, or a worse me?

Insecurities aside, I can tell you now that there was a dark period in my life when I really didn’t know who I was. It was a rough time where I teetered on the edge of bi-polar tendencies and it was pot luck which side of my character you got. It didn't help that an ex-‘friend’ used to tell me over and over that really, it wasn’t my fault because I couldn’t help being born a two-faced Gemini.

It took me a while to realise that she needed to be shown the red card. And an even longer time to figure out that we human beings have perfected the art of being multi-faceted, that it often takes people a good deal of time before they’ll allow the ‘real me’ to emerge. But while I understand this can often be due to safety mechanisms, is there really a need for it, and wouldn’t it be quite nice if we didn’t feel the need to change ourselves from situation to situation, or when faced with different people?

Over the last few years I’ve made a concerted effort to try and be a little more, well, constant. It's less tiring but by no means has it been an easy task. For one thing I am a woman with a predilection for over-analysis, and for another, I am paranoid and too often insecure. But while I suffer the odd momentary lapse from time to time, generally these days you’ll tend to find that the PPQ who’s hanging out with her brothers and Bubs on a Sunday in Chinatown yumming up Dim Sum is pretty much the same as the PPQ who’s busting a groove on the dancefloor with her oldest mates, and that’s pretty much the same as the PPQ who’s bantering with her print buyers and printers when at work.

And I like to think that’s a good thing.

With sincere apologies to the Mighty Crumb for blatant phrase theft


And I was lead to believe that men don't really notice what women wear.
Or even that they don't remember.
Or don't care. For these are trivial things.
At the time my chagrin was immense.
It just didn't seem fair that we women have to go to such efforts to impress a man.
Lovely make up, a carefully selected outfit (not too slutty, not too prim), freshly coiffed hair even, when in the wild world it's the male's duty to look good (peacocks) and sometimes even to bear the children (seahorses).

Just how come we human females have been lumbered with not only both of these, frankly huge, responsibilities but also with the huge disadvantage of having to over-analyse everything*?

Last time I was with the Dreamboat I was in my element. It was just me, him, a cosy bar, some san miguels and a particularly cheeky drop of red. We jabbered away aimlessly and whilst reminiscing about the drunken shenanigans of a previous night out, in true PPQ style, I made some derogatory comment about myself.

PPQ: We ended up in a really expensive members only club, right?

DB: Yeah, the bouncers did a deal with me, that they'd let us in if we paid twenty quid each

PPQ: Wow. And the drinks were about 7 quid each.

DB: And it was full of poncey people......

PPQ: who were dressed to the nines. On a thursday, and I felt really out of place cos I looked like a right munter!

DB: But you were wearing jeans and a red top weren't you? You didn't look like a munter at all.

Exsqueeze me? Baking powder?
Just imagine my mortification on this realisation. He remembered what I was wearing that night? What did that mean? He remembered because he was thinking I had a shocking dress sense? That I looked like a hedge-pig? A swamp donkey? Hang on, maybe he thought I looked cute? Or hot? Or fat. And short. *see note above

More than three weeks after the event I am still afflicted with female-over-analysis. And I am just as mortified that he remembered!

Typical woman. Tut.