My friend Matt is ace.

Okay so sometimes he can be a bit of a lad and he'll drink ridiculous amounts of lager and when we're out he'll insist on running away without prior warning in search of a Maccy D, but I really have a lot of affection for him.

One of my friends bemoans the fact that we don't fancy each other, but to be honest, I like having him as a friend.

He's a tall, lovable oaf of a man who towers about 3 feet above me (I'm little!), with a deep Barry White-esque voice, proper man sideburns, and best of all, he is generous with his hugs.

Our hug-ritual has become a bit of an in joke with our crowd. On seeing me he'll stand with his arms out-stretched, hands moving back and forth in a beckoning gesture,

"Awwww, come 'ere PPQ" he'll say

I'm there straight away and next thing I know, I'm totally enveloped in a big bear hug.

Ahhhhhh.

His hugs are not reserved for special occasions. I get them whenever he sees me, and usually, as the night progresses and he gets more and more inebriated they increase in frequency.

But the other night, when we were in a trendy cocktail bar and I had just recounted some recent woes to him in my usual self-deprecating manner, sounding all brave and nonchalant, despite the fact that all the cool cool people were watching and despite the fact that he was still relatively sober, he used two of his hugs in a row...

"Awww, come 'ere PPQ. Lesshave a hug. It'll all be okay."

Sometimes, a good old hug is just what's needed.

If they say that time waits for no man, then what about love?
Does love wait?
Is there some sort of time period on it? A best before date?

I got thinking about it because I was watching a thing called love this evening, and although I’m a fickle female and the lead character is very easy on the eye, I loved it because the ideals and the script were just brilliant. Because they reminded me of some of the notions that I used to have about love, but that I managed to kind of lose somewhere along the way.

A while back I had been bemoaning the lack of some sort of identification mechanic for ‘the one’. We spend so much of our lives wondering about love, some of us too scared to take a chance and in doing so missing out on opportunities, some of us too scared not to take a chance and who end up compromising their dreams.

I don’t believe in settling. Why would you? If you're going to settle with someone who gives you unconditional love but there's no va va voom, you're wasting the chance for something better. Sheesh, get a friend or a pet. Or a hobby. Spend time with your folks. Likewise the thought of being with someone 24/7, who likes doing exactly the same things, with all the same people? Please, get me outta there.

I had always relied on the butterflies to help me to identify potential love situations, but recently I've noticed that they can strike me at any time, if I'm late for something important, if I have to stand up in front of a large crowd, or I've made a mistake, if I've let someone down. I mean sure, butterflies when accompanying romance are always a bonus, bu they're not the be all and end all.

And while I don’t believe that two people can love or like each other in equal amounts all of the time, I used to be a huge believer in the idea of a gut-wrenching, knock you off your feet love. One that may ebb and flow every now and then, but that ultimately shines throughout your lifetime. That makes you feel healthy and happy. That takes your breath away but also allows you to breathe easy. One that feels like an adventure but also makes you feel like you're home. One that can hit you BAM between the eyes right from the outset, or that can creep on you with time like a silent invader when you’re least expecting it.

A little while ago I realised that I had been making excuses for my inability to trust myself or anyone else with my heart.

But maybe now it really is time to start believing again.

Every now and then at work we get a perk.

Tonight, Moonchild and I were rewarded for working our nuts off these past couple of months with tickets to the illustrious (ahem) Inside Soap Awards party, and whilst I was looking forward to the evening (despite the onset of a chest infection), MC was a little less enthused. Soap stars and celebrity obsession is not her thing and rightly so.

“Awww, come on, free booze and the chance to sit in a corner and gossip – what more could you ask for?”

So off we popped to the Atlantic.

When we got there the entrance was lined with Paparazzi. With no separate entrance for us mere mortals we let the higher echelons of the soap world in, evoked our dutch courage and entered the venue wedged in between some lesser known soap act actors. On making it to the door the hot man asked for our names. Visions of "your name's not down you're not coming in" riddled me with fear, but instead he smiled a huge toothy grin and welcomed us in.

"Is there an entrance for normal people?" I whispered

"Oh, as far as I'm concerned, everyone's normal."

I was so excited at the prospect of being in the same room as the Harmanator that I nearly peed my pants. I mean, this was a guy who along with Pacey from Dawson’s Creek, was on my fantasy shag list (you know, where you and your current squeeze agree on a couple of fantasy shags, who you’d never, ever meet, but if you did, you’d be allowed to shag?).

The biggest topic of discussion for us, aside from the 'fashion' on parade was whether or not these lesser celebs should be put on pedestals like this. I mean, sure you can understand people getting excited about meeting say Robert De Niro or Dame Judy Dench, or even the younger generation of Hollywood stars, but this?

This nations’s obsession with celebrity is staggering. But I think when it comes down to it, I think it is simply a form of escapism. Why worry about your own life when you can buy a celeb gossip mag for a pound and read all about theirs?

We could have gone on for hours, but nonetheless it was a fun night. I sipped on a Queen Victoria (crushed fresh raspberries, passion fruit and peach juice, crushed ice and a shot of vodka), whilst MC had the White Loft Cosmopolitan. And for once I remained sober and didn’t make a tit of myself on the dance floor.

And it was really refreshing to see that while some of the so called starlets were absolute wankers, some of them were really down to earth.

Standing in the queue in the ladies was a real eye opener, everyone was so much smaller in real life. Bex from Casualty, dressed to kill, came over to me just as I was about to step into a cubicle which looked flooded, announcing

“Oh it’s really minging in there, here have a bog roll”

And when Leanne from Corrie couldn’t figure out how to get into one of the cubicles, she laughed and said to me

“All right love? I got a bit confused for a moment with all of those mirrors.”

Seems they are just people after all.

Impromptu nights out are always so much fun.

Friday evening 6pm, my gal pals Bubs and Moonchild and I decided that a night in Jerusalem 'checking out the hot boys' was in order. Off we went, armed with a little smattering of glittery make up.

It was a funny night. Moonchild and I fell in love with the cute little DJ and kept handing him cigarettes whilst giggling like doting school girls. And Bubs bumped into an old school friend who she hasn't seen for nearly ten years.

So while Bubs and her long lost friend were blathering away that left and and Moonchild to check out the top totty. The place was heaving so we found ourselves standing on, what later on in the evening turns into the dancefloor, with a trusty bottle of red and our cheeky banter.

It wasn't long before we were approached by a guy who looked like Borat. Dressed in a pin striped suit and accompanied by six of his mates he was oozing confidence. He was wafting a letter of a conditional job offer in our faces and insisting we dance with him.

"Ladies, dance with me" Borat demanded.

"Errrm, thanks but we're okay" I replied.

"Are you lesbians?"

Yeah right. That's right, we're lesbians because we don't want to dance with you.

"Yes, yes we are lesbians" I said, winking at Moonchild.

"But it's okay, I have no balls. Look feel."

Whoa there cowboy, let's back up a bit there.

"It's okay, I believe you. So where are your balls then?" I asked, not sure I really wanted to know the answer.

"Ah, they are in Singapore."

"Singapore? And what if you need your balls?" I asked, totally bemused.

"Well, modern technology...it's a wonder. You haven't heard of e-mail? I can get them back like that" clicking his fingers.

Hmmmm.

Thankfully we managed to lose Borat by pointing out two unsuspecting chav girls and pushing him in their direction.

We then proceeded to get hideously drunk and danced til the wee hours of the morning.

Just what the doctor ordered.

“It’s not you, it’s me."

God. He's breaking up with me. I’m incredulous, clinging to the phone like it’s some sort of life support. Next to “We need to talk” (which, incidentally he used at the beginning of the conversation) there really are no other words that can act like liquid nitrogen, freezing my internal organs on contact. I can’t speak, and all I can manage are small, quiet noises, not unlike a wounded animal.

“I feel like I’ve been unfair to you. And it’s about time I stopped.”

Too little too late pal. You’ve been stringing me along for months now. I have known that there’s something wrong and that’s why I told you to decide what you want to do.

“And I just don’t think I’m ready for a relationship.”

And you’re telling me this NOW? A year ago would have been so much more helpful, you wanker.

“And I feel terrible. You are the best girlfriend a guy could ask for…”

Then how come you don’t want to go out with me anymore? If I’m that great?

The salt water starts to well in my eyes and I feel that all too familiar sensation as the liquid sadness leaves its trail on my face. I start thinking about his stuff that I have at my place, all my stuff at his, the logistics of returning it all. His mother, who’ll be devastated. About the fact that I’m laid up in bed recuperating from a back operation, already depressed due to a bad reaction to the anaesthetic. My birthday, which was only a week ago and which was a wash out because he didn’t want to come to London to see me. I try to think of anything to drown his voice out. His voice. Dripping with pity, but no genuine sadness.

I now realise that the ex-bastard is emotionally impotent. He thought it was okay to go out with me for a year, biding his time until something better came along, until he figured out what he really wanted. He screwed me up good and proper with yet another “it’s not you, it’s me” and I needed yet another elastoplast for my breaking heart. I spent nigh on two years trying to heal myself after that. Couldn’t even bring myself to fancy anyone for fear of losing my heart and head again. I just didn’t think that I could cope with it all. So I hid myself. Got myself a new safety mechanism.

But that's no way to live. Hiding like that. Not trusting anyone.

Then came the DB. He reminded me that I am capable of fancying guys and I was so relieved at this realisation. That I hadn't made myself totally incapable of feeling.

And most recently I found myself taking a chance on someone. Taking a risk. It all felt so good. He makes me feel good. I felt a kind of liberation and I found myself believing that maybe I do deserve to be happy and loved. I took the leap and for reasons I can’t explain, he ended it. And I was unnecessarily mean at the time (attack is sometimes the best form of defence).

But now I see that this is not the end of the world. Because I’m proud of myself for taking a risk. Taking a chance. Because at least this way I don’t have to face the regrets and the ‘what if’s’ ten years down the line. Because I trusted him and he was good to his word. Because my life will not end just because I got hurt.

That makes me feel less cynical and even a little healthy.
And in my book, that's a good thing.

OKay, so I know that Selfridge's likes to market itself as a one-stop-shop...
...but they're selling poles for Pole dancing now?

Huzzar!

There's something afoot in blogsville.
I'm not sure if it's introspection or philosophising or what, but it seems that many bloggers are battling (and conquering) demons, struggling with complicated stories or just trying to find their way.
This has made me realise that when the chips are down, people who hardly know you can come good.
As can the ones who do know you of course.
It has also reminded me that while it's easy to get lost in your own troubles, there are people out there are going through similar trials. Some are even going through worse.

I don't know about anyone else, but for me, it's reassuring to know that someone else can empathise.

sometimes you will get hurt
people will hurt you
and you will hurt them
sometimes when you fall
you brush yourself down and get right back into the game
and sometimes you just don't have the strength
sometimes you can look too hard and miss what's right in front of you
and sometimes when you're coasting
you'll find what you didn't know you were looking for
sometimes when you least expect it
you'll look up and see two shooting stars in one night
sometimes you'll be ambushed by sparks and butterflies
and sometimes they'll creep up on you quietly with stealth
sometimes you make the same mistakes time and again
and find yourself wondering why
sometimes you learn from them and feel better for it
sometimes you'll feel lost
and someone will come into your life and show you the way
sometimes you'll feel too scared to take risks
and you'll wrap yourself up in cotton wool to brace yourself from hurt
but if you never take risks, then you risk your happiness

Is it really true that you always want what you can't have...and then when you have it you don't really want it anymore?

And is sadness cumulative...or does the slate get wiped clean?

Going out for a few cheekies on a school night with your mates always seems like a good idea at the time.

It's never quite like that the morning after.

Last night I sank a bottle of red all on my own, smoked far too many fags, got home to chat on the phone till the wee hours of the morning and fell asleep in my huge fleece and full makeup.

This morning I couldn't see straight, I threw on some very random clothing and I can't articulate myself.

I'm craving carbs like a lunatic and I'm of absolutely no use to anyone at all.

I would send myself off to bed without any tea or TV and force myself to consider the consequences of what I've done, but it's Col's leaving drinks and I have to go through it all again tonight.

*Sigh*

*with advance abject apologies for blatant bragging

My moniker is Paranoidpromqueen for a reason.
As I've mentioned before, I'm a walking bundle of contradictions.
I come across as confident but inside I'm crapping myself and so I overcompensate.
I worry that people will find out I'm a fraud.
I can be happy and sad.
Down to earth but have my head in the clouds.
Girly but a tomboy.
I am a veritable pick 'n' mix.

I am not, however, high maintenance.
Sure like any girl I love shopping.
I have a penchant for shoes and handbags.
I like to be romanced from time to time, I like to be given attention and affection by those I love. I like surprise presents, and gifts that have been made for me.

But those things are so much better when they happen every now and then and by complete surprise. Most of the time a hug and a laugh will do.

Today though, I got an unexpected bunch of flowers at work.
And I'm grinning like a chesire cat.

Wheeeeeeee!

I walked into the office on Friday morning with a slight hangover.

Clutching my cure-all fried egg sandwich on granary, no butter, splodge of mayo, black pepper and a cup of uber strong tea, I gingerly made my way to my desk so as not to anger the hangover headache trolls. One unexpected noise or jerk of my body could cause untold havoc, their wrath would be unleashed, and they would wreak vengeance upon me by playing their bongos, congos, tablas and drums with all their might.

I was just tucking into my culinary delight of a breakfast when he walked in. I could only just see his head from where I was sitting but as I looked up I saw that he was looking ever so pleased with himself.

*Wonder what he's up to* I thought and quickly busied myself with the more important task at hand.

Just as I was about to swallow he walked up to his desk and I caught a full view of him...My freshly masticated egg sandwich went flying all over my screen as I guffawed and sniggered and chortled and damn near nearly choked.

There he was, my boss, dressed in jeans (in a strictly no jeans office) and a semi-tight, grey jumper with what can only be described as candy coloured stripes.

I pulled myself together, wiped my screen down and said
PPQ: You have got to be having a laugh
He: What? I like it, it's a nice jumper.
PPQ: Yeah, for a girl.

The Big Cheese walked in from an early meeting and had to clutch her sides from all her laughter.
She: You have got to be kidding. It's not bad enough that you're breaking the rules by wearing jeans, but you then only draw attention to the fact by wearing a ridiculous jumper?

His smug smirk was beginning to pale a little.
He: What, I like following fashion, and this is a nice jumper, I like it. You can call me Bertie Basset.
PPQ: Yeah, too right, cos you can't get away with wearing that without getting the piss taken out of you all day.

Just then, just down the office I could hear what can only be described as a rumble of laughter. Up stood three of the trading team, pointing and laughing.

And in a moment of pure synchronicity they all moved their hands to their foreheads, fingers in an 'L' shape, and cried out 'La...hooooo....hoooo...serrrrr'.

Sometimes, fashion just ain't what it's cracked up to be.

Hey folks, I'm over at Jonesy's today, keeping the place warm, watering the plants, bringing in the post.

It's a little quiet and lonely without her - fancy coming over and keeping me company?

Well hey there, come on in love.
Here, let me give you a hug.
Here's a cuppa tea made with extra special love and some of your favourite biscuits.
Come here, come on, sit down and tell me all about it......

I know how it feels.
Really.
I can empathise and sympathise.
And I totally understand that people telling you that 'time will heal' and 'thing's will get better' does not help. Because that doesn't change things now, does it?
And I know it's hard for you not to compare yourself with those around you.
I know this.
But really. It will get better.

There will come a day when you wake in the morning, yawning and stretching while the sun spills into your room.
And you'll go to your stereo and forgo the maudlin music for the chipper choons.
That will be the day when you go to wash and get ready for work and you catch yourself in the mirror with a smile on your face and your shoulders will feel light and without the heavy load of your burden.

That day will come.
And I can't tell you when it will happen, but it will.
Have faith.
And it will happen because I said so.

Apparantly I have a 'glow' about me.

I'm not entirely sure what that means but my boss said it to me this morning. He thinks I have a new secret boyfriend.

I thought women who were pregnant had 'glows' about them, and I can tell you that I'm not pregnant!

Maybe I'm feeling smug cos some of my demons have been succumbing to me dragon style.
Maybe I was chuffed that when I got in to work yesterday my first edition Douglas Couplands had turned up.
Maybe I just decided that after months of being a fahhhking cow I'd smile for a change.
Maybe my new underwear is making me feel good.
Maybe I just have a little secret which makes me smile to myself.

Maybe it's nothing and I made it all up.... ;-)

In case you didn't know, Jonesy has gone on holiday and stupidly left a few of us miscreants in charge.

We're all taking it in turns to keep the place warm, bring in the mail, water the plants and guest post from time to time.

What she doesn't realise is that we're trashing the place right now....so grab some tinnies, some munchies and come on over.

In my promqueen world of fancy I look like Helena Christiansen and I get to wear fairy wings and a tiara.
Every morning, little cherubs scatter rose petals at my feet and bring me many many different pairs of shoes for me to choose.
In this world ALL men find me irresistable, and all women want to be my friend.
Bubs and I have a multi-million-record-selling band, and I can play the drums, the guitar and the piano like a fiend.
Neon signs fall from the sky.
And everyone has somebody to love and and somebody to love them.

La la la la la...come on sing with me people, tell me what would happen in your worlds...

(In case you're wondering...I bought two sets of matching underwear in my lunchbreak and I'm hiiiigh on retail therapy!)

"It's a troubled game we stage"

Yes I have games on my mind.
Not ball games or field games or children's games.

Something else...the games we play with each other.
Mind games.

It keeps me awake at night trying to figure out why people feel the need to play games.
They require subterfuge and contrivance. Strategic planning. And even insidiousness.
And I've never been one for games.
Mostly because I'm not very good at them. (Well, actually if I do say so myself I'm pretty bloody hot at table football and NO I don't spin).
Because I wear my heart on my sleeve so people know how to play me right from the start.
I have no poker face.
I'd rather people were honest and open.

My esteemed friend Jonners (aka Boy) told me "Everyone plays games, some subtle, some generally acceptable, some less so. A lot of the time we aren't even trying to play them. But we do. You are "playing" a game with X because you believe that if you are honest with him (ie, you stop playing) then he will run away. So you do what you think is best to capture your man. Like it or not, deliberate or not, its part of what you are doing. It just's when someone does it to you that it feels like they are playing a game"

Pah. I give up.
Seems it's a life filled with game-playing.

Anyone up for a game of table footy?