...and I'm definitely not going to cry.

Oh.Sweet.Lord.

It's my blogbirthday today. I'm one year old!

I feel like I've come a long way since my first post. Grown up a little, learned things from my older blogbuddies, had tons of fun. And for that *sheds a tear and starts her over-the-top oscar acceptance speech a la Gwynnie in her pink meringue dress*...I'd like to thank God because without him this would not be possible, I'd like to thank everybody in the world for everything they've done, my friends my family....*Shakes herself back to reality*

Ooops, sorry, the PRomQueen in me got a little carried away there!

Anyway in honour of all that, I'm having a party here...all welcome, bring booze, friends, and jelly...

Party, party, party.

Wo-hoooo!

*With profuse, abject and advance apologies for the self-indulgent post ahead*

I've never liked to admit that maybe, just maybe I suffer from the 'D' word. Although my symptoms make it all likely, and it has been discussed with friends, I still like to take the ostrich approach when faced with the cold.hard.truth. You see admitting one is depressed is one thing, but going to a doctor is another thing in itself and my stupid pea-brain likes to deal with it all in a peculiar way by trying to ignore it. If I pretend I'm not depressed, and no one diagnoses me, then I'm not. Excellent.

Why am I so stubborn? Because there are other people out there in the world who have valid reasons to feel bad. Real people with real problems. Some with grief and disease and abuse to cope with. And heaven help the one who tries to persuade me otherwise. There's no point even trying to convince me that it's okay for me to feel depressed (I've tried for the last 12 years), because for some reason, I am missing a bit in my brain that makes it okay for me to feel bad without beating myself up about it. Infact, most days it's a struggle for me to even get on with myself. Frustrated friends offer me help, or plead with me to go and get help, but I just fob them off with 'It'll pass, it always does', completely ignoring the fact that it may well pass, but it always comes back.

Ans that's the trouble. Ignoring it doesn't mean it goes away.

What makes it worse that I'm a professional at convincing other people that it's okay for them to be depressed;
'It's not an admission of being weak or broken, or a freak...there's just a chemical imbalance in your brain that needs to be levelled out'
or
'Tons of people feel like this, you don't have to feel ashamed'
or
'Everyone loves you, surely that's testament to how great you are'
or my favourite
'Only you can make changes to feel better...I can't go to the therapist for you...if you ignore it, it won't go away'.

But you see, it's so much easier for me to pretend it's not happening because it works in peaks and troughs and I've become pretty good at avoidance tactics. I spend the troughs telling myself that it'll pass, going out and getting pissed, working late so I don't have to think about it, or sometimes staying away from everyone in case it's contagious. While the peaks are dealt with a semi-perma-grin plastered on my face and disregarding the gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach and the gentle tenter hooks tugging at my heart. If that fails, it's okay because I have become a master of disguise and subterfuge and sometimes I can even trick myself.

But recently I've learned a lot and I have blogging to thank for a lot of these lessons...that people everywhere have problems. That it's okay to feel bad and despondent sometimes. That you can say 'oh they've had a tough life' but that doesn't necessarily mean that you haven't. That bad stuff is relative. That different people deal with situations in different ways. That you shouldn't compare yourself to others. All this and so much more.

This morning, someone said to me;
'Maybe waiting for good stuff to happen doesn't work. Maybe you either have to make good stuff happen, or be able to see the good in the stuff that IS happening. But you sort of come to expect good times and bad times, after a while. That's life. And anyway, sometimes I actually enjoy being sad. It shows you're human, and you can feel. '

I heard him. Actually heard what he wasy saying. And I realised that it's true, I'm not a freak and I'm not stupid for feeling this way. Maybe I should seek help. Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe it's my choice. Maybe I should just give myself a break. And you know what, I feel a lot better for it.

You can be a good listener.
You can be a bloody good listener.
You can give the bestest, most cleverest advice in the world.
You can do it 'til you're blue in the face...
...But it's bloody hard to take your own advice.

I arrived promptly at 7.30am just as I had been instructed which was a feat in itself as I am totally incapable of being punctual. But instead of being given the usual bed to wait in they showed me to a waiting room instead. Three and half hours of sitting in a crippling chair and they finally assigned me a bed and my sexy hospital get up which included a bottom-baring gown and anti-DVT stockings. Mmmmm.

I read Glamour from cover to cover, two celebrity gossip magazines and slept for a good two hours. I had visits from the ward sister, health care assistant, anaesthetist, nurse, pharmacist and surgeon, each of them asking me the same questions. Family history, have you removed your jewellery, any loose teeth or crowns, when did you last eat or drink, any nail polish, have you got your stockings on?

None of this phased or bothered me because I’ve been in hospital 4 times in the last 3 years (nothing too serious mind), and I’m a dab hand at it. A professional if you will.

But this time I am ashamed to admit that I forgot a small and simple part of the whole routine…I was wheeled in to the pre-op room on my lovely gurney to meet my cute, male Anaesthetist nurse;

Anaesthetist Nurse: 'Hullo Miss PPQ, I’m Bosco and I’m you anaesthetist nurse'

PPQ: 'Hullo Bosco'

Anaesthetist Nurse: ‘Now you’ve been through this before so you know the drill don’t you?’

PPQ nodding: 'Mm hmmm'

Anaesthetist Nurse: ‘Okay so first I’m just going to attach the monitors to you, like so…ooh, could you just lift yourself while I pull your gown to one side’

PPQ blushing slightly: ‘Okay’

Anaesthetist Nurse: ‘Okay, so there we go…hmmm….wait….walking over to his notes…..where are you having this treatment done?’

PPQ: ‘On my lower back’

Anaesthetist Nurse: ‘Ahh, well, I just noticed thatyou’ve still got your pants on. Perhaps it’s best you take them off now, otherwise it’ll be terribly difficult for the surgeon to remove them while you’re anaesthetised.’

PPQ now blushing furiously and wrestling to get her pants off without giving Bosco an eyeful or interfering with the monitoring equipment: ‘Oh bugger, I’m sooo sorry. I can’t believe I forgot.’ Blushing even more

Anaesthetist Nurse: ‘Well, I don’t get to ask ladies to take their pants off in front of me very often these days.’

PPQ guffawing now, thinking to herself, And if only you knew dear Bosco, that I do not get men asking me to take my pants off for them very often these days!

Needless to say, after that interlude, I didn’t feel so nervous about the impending general anaesthetic.

...but they're not actually. They're all shades of red and yellow, and the sky is eye-dazzlingly blue. It's a glorious day.

This is my favourite time of year. When the leaves are turning and the daylight has a hazy quality to it and although there's more of a chill in the air, it's not yet cold enough for miserable looking people. Instead they just look more approachable in their cosy clothes.

Today I have a minging hangover. My brain feels like cotton wool and I feel that every little task is slowed down tenfold because I'm wading through jelly as I do it. Tomorrow I have to go into hospital and have some treatment under a general anaesthetic. Nothing serious mind, but hospitals aren't my favourite places.

But despite all of this, I feel okay.
In fact, I feel smiley.

Anyone for a cuppa tea?

It amazes me the length that some people will go to prove their loyalty to their friends. I was having a chat with my Unlucky buddy over the fact that recently my clock has been ticking that little bit louder of late (I’m twenty eight now, and that’s practically on the shelf where I hail from for chrissake), that I was worried by the thought of ending up a cat lady, and what did he do? He selflessly offered me his spunk.

His spunk I tell you.

Despite the mock shock, his ever so generous offer didn't really shock me at all. Not one bit. Because unbeknownst to Unlucky, only a few years earlier, a colleague from work had already offered to supply a ‘cup of his seed’ on my 35th birthday, wherever I was in the world.

Now normally I deal with this clock ticking shit by taking the piss out of myself, while my real concerns I try to keep to myself. This way I can attempt to muffle the tick of the clock, smother it with useless thoughts of ‘what shall I have for my tea?’ with a new book I'm reading, maybe some bollocks on tv, new shoes, all sorts, but just recently it seems to be ticking that little bit louder because I’ve realised it’s not just about babies and settling down. No, these days my clock is ticking for everything I feel I haven’t done in my life. And being the fuckwit that I am, this new dimension to my clock now gives me this sense that things are slipping away, out of reach, passing me by...that I don't know where I am, or where I'm going. That I don't know what I want, and I want things I can't have, that I'm wasting time doing a job that I just don't enjoy anymore, while getting more and more into debt, that my sense of responsibility is leaving me and that I deal with things by sticking my head in the sand...tick tock tick tock...all of these things, mixed up and jumbled up into one big crazy clock thing.

But bizarrely, rather than freak me out this realisation has had a really odd effect on me…I feel strangely calm. Scarily calm. Maybe it’s the calm before the storm?

But whatever the reason, I’m not going to question it.

Because I’m a grown up and I can choose my path. I’m strong and sassy and intelligent, and someone told me the other night that I would never end up a cat lady. And I have options. And two spunk donors. And a woman can’t really ask for much more than that can she?

Now where’s that turkey baster?

I spent so long thinking that I had it in me to wait for you. That I could pass through oceans of time and deal with the highs, the blows, the lows, and all of the hands that life dealt me, all the time knowing that you would show up one day when I least expected it. The thought of you was my driving force, and with you in mind I could wait. I could be patient, I could be an angel and a devil, good and naughty - I could be everything I was meant to be; my worst my best, all of those things. Every time they let me down and bade me farewell with their substandard reasoning, I knew I had it in within to put it all behind me and to ‘get on with things’, because deep down, I knew this was just a dress rehearsal. It was all just a chance for me to better myself, get stronger, learn to like me and finally know myself. Now though, I’m not so sure and I wonder if I fooled myself into believing that when you came, all of the choices I had made in my life, the hurt I’d caused my nearest and dearest would finally make sense, that all of my wrongs would be forgiven. The thought of you was enough to carry me. But now I find that I am just tired. I’m tired of not knowing anymore, and I’m tired of the ineffable emptiness that sits like a lead weight in my core. And most of all I’m tired of waiting. Now I wonder if maybe you're not coming at all? So I think, if it’s okay with you, I may just stop waiting, and I may just go to the pub with my friends and have a few drinks and forget about it all.

A watched kettle never boils?

Well, I don't know about that, it does boil, but it sure as hell takes its own sweet fucking time about it.

With thanks to Petite anglaise for jogging my memory

It was our holy place.

Somewhere for us to join together and indulge ourselves in the serenity that surrounded us. A place of peace, and refuge. Not your usual place of worship you understand but a special sanctuary nonetheless. Free from the rigours of any religion, hard-earned cash in hand and smiles on faces, we'd make our own kind of pilgrimage to...
The Temple Public House (est...oooh...errrm...Nineteen seventy something?), our hallowed local.

Now to some, a paltry pub may not hold much import, but to us it was our get away. And I can't remember which one of us found it, but that doesn't matter anymore.

On approaching the pub, most punters would have been put off and turned away because on first glance it almost looked closed. But to the trained eyes of us regulars, a dim but inviting light could always be seen.

You see, the Temple was an 'old man's pub', the last bastion of British Culture. On entering one would be greeted by the chattering hum of the fruit machines, faux wood-panelled walls and hazy lighting. The secondary greeting always followed closely as Brian the cheery landlord would look up from his task in hand, and bellow "Hey guys, good to see you again...what'll be? Five pints of Stella?" A bear of a man with a beer belly to be proud of, Brian always had a genuinely happy to see us smile, and with his knowledge for all his regulars' tipple of choice and offers of "Swing by a little early on Sunday and you can have some roast spuds", was the kind of man that I just wanted to run up to and hug tightly.

We never tired of the place. Who could? With it's fine selection of beer and ale on draught and prices that always held, there was something for everyone; a quiet (even more dimly lit) corner for those who wanted to have a chat, a more 'lively' area with quiz and fruit machines, table football, pool tables, darts and a juke box with an excellent selection of decent music.
It was heaven.

I was heart broken to hear that Brian had sold up to go travelling round the world with his missus, and that the new owners had turned it into a money-making pit filled with sponsored t-shirts, large screen tvs and generic decor. Oh how I grieved and mourned.

And I still think of it fondly and often as I realise that ever since I moved to the big smoke, I have never found a place that lived up to such high standards. Having a friendly local can make the world of difference.

And I don't half miss the place.

Sometimes you’ll just see someone and all of a sudden you don't feel like yourself. You’ll get this breath-taking, gut-wrenching feeling as if you've taken a minor blow to the stomach and then you feel all tingly and warm inside, a sensation which then seeps and spreads all around your body like warm honey until your whole core is on fire.

You know the feeling? Whether it's a random, handsome stranger walking down the street, the new recruit at work, a famous actor or singer, it's the one that makes you feel all hot and bothered and even a little raunchy.

It's crazy and I've never figured out why certain people have that effect. What is it that makes a person head-turningly sexy when you don't even know them, don't even know if they're a good person, or that you'd get on with each other?

Is it beauty? The clothes they wear? Confidence, age or talent maybe? Is it all of these things and if it is, what's the secret formula?

On second thoughts, maybe it's best kept a secret?
I have to say though, I really love that feeling.

We'd go out for happy hour cocktails and laugh and chat.
I showed her round town, helped her settle into work and this big, scary city. I trusted her, introduced her to the rest of my friends.It wasn't until much later, until after she'd betrayed me, that it all started fitting into place and I realised her true nature.

She's one those types, yknow, that all men love and all women mistrust inherently. Long blonde hair, a figure to die for and saucer-like blue eyes that peer up at you from under lengthy mascara-caked lashes. She knows exactly how to play people in order to get what she wants.

She keeps the men sweet and and knows to keep the women at arm's length, though she carefully selects one or two females to bring close as allies. Working by stealth, quietly creeping around like an assasin, she has, over the years, learned the little ways to gain trust. Pay a little compliment here and there, do some small favours, smile, flutter those lashes a lot and laugh at people's jokes. Once her position had been secured she'd move on to phase two, gleaning information from people (all the time never giving much away herself) and keeping it safe in her ammo stores for a later date.
Information, knowlegde, well it's powerful isn't it? And that's how she gets you.

After she'd dropped me in it I stoppped trusting her quick smart. Stopped inviting her out, barely spoke to her most days except for a civil 'hullo' and a srained smile when passing. She began to symbolise everything I hate about being a woman, she was who I didn't want to be. I had trusted her, and she had taken advantage of that, and well, once bitten twice shy.

Imagine the relief I experienced when she decided to leave and try out life with her man in another country. Imagine that.

And imagine the weight that was dumped onto my shoulders yesterday when I learned that she's coming back.

Atlas' load was nothing compared to this.

I always thought they were so important, and that they had to be there right from the start.
You know, those pesky little butterflies, the sparks, zing. I've often found myself making certain choices based on them, later realising that I may have been a little too quick off the mark, and wishing that I had done things differently. But as the years pass I learn more and more about their nature.
They have minds of their own. They don't have a schedule or offer any warning of their arrival and departure and are often transient. Sometimes when you think they're not there, they turn up late and surpise you.
Sure they're still important to me, they indicate things to me and I need them, hell, I like them. But whereas I used to think that they had to be there at the beginning for me to make any life chainging decisions, I know now not to depend on them. And never to rely on them. Because they're little tricksters and because you can miss out good things if you spend your time waiting for them to turn up.
One thing I do know about them though is that I like them a lot, and they make me feel all warm inside.

No matter gay or grim;
it's those tiny little sparks
daily life that makes me
forget my wounded heart
It doesn't matter when
it may rain or it may shine
blurred memories of us
come back from time to time
(Royksopp)

After a few weeks of gentle coercion I decided to give in, she was ever so persuasive and she so wanted for me to be as happy as she was.

“Come on, where’s the harm in trying it?” she said, looking at me with those doe eyes. “I mean, you might even like it?” Hopeful now.

“Okay, okay,” I offered reluctantly, “Don’t blame me if it’s a massive disaster though.”

“Yay. Excellent, I’ll sort it out then.” And off she went to arrange my first ever blind date.

The prospective was a good friend of hers from uni, a lawyer earning a good living with his own flat in south London, he was ‘sexy, and intelligent’. I had a feeling of foreboding. I hate the thought of blind dates and every inch of my body was against it, but I relented. Do something that scares you every day, I once read, and, well, I’m a prized wuss so even though I don’t get round to scaring myself every day, I try to from time to time at least, and I had been single for eons and it was time to get back into the game.

The night finally arrived and I turned up with Doe-Eyes and her boyfriend in tow. The plan - group drinks to begin, once we’re chatting of our own accord they’d slope off. The minute I clocked eyes on him I knew it would be a slow night ahead. He was wearing chinos (a bad thing – ask Jonesy), shirt tucked in, a standard issue M&S v-neck jumper, the shoes were unmentionable and his hair was, well, corporate.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I like to get to know someone before I decide whether I like them or not, I tend not to judge based on the shell, but this was a date and I know after years of worldly experience (ahem) that generally, you look out for little signs that you may have common interests or similarities in your personalities, as well as a smattering of individuality, a dash of an edge, that sort of thing.

That’s okay, I thought to myself, maybe it’s his work gear. Don’t be so shallow, give him a chance.

Things did not improve. On discussing the last concert we’d all been to, Orbital (weird and crazy and they were wearing little deely bopper lights on helmets), Coldplay (twice, and they were breath-taking) and him? A cello concerto.

No problem, I like a bit of classical music, let’s see if he likes other types of music…a heated debate ensued on how best to arrange your CDs? A-Z by artist of course, how else would you find anything? (both girls), by genre (Doe-eyes Boyfriend) and “well, I only have about ten and they’re on top of my freezer.” Whoa there, not liking music that much I can deal with, but HE KEEPS HIS CDS ON THE FREEZER. Does he not realise that CD storage requires care? Move on PPQ, move on…okay how about books? Well, he reads the tragedies, but not in English, in Latin, and he doesn’t really like novels.

This did not bode well at all. The other two had sloped off by now so I decided it was time to make a move.

“I’m sorry, I have a huge day of meetings tomorrow, and I have to get up early to catch a train, it was lovely meeting you, but I think I’d better get going.”

And he did the unthinkable. He looked at me, stuck his bottom lip out and pouted.

“Oh, do you have to go now? Have dinner with me at least?”

For some stupid reason I agreed, and it just didn’t get any better. After deciding that he absolutely wanted the chicken, he then ordered exactly what I had, the fish of the day, and proceeded to shovel mouthfuls of the stuff even though it was served on the bone. There followed painful moments of him having to extract the fish bones from his mouth – great huge, half-masticated, saliva-coated bones. I didn’t know where to look.

He talked a lot, about how he didn’t particularly like his family, didn’t understand why he should keep in touch with his siblings as it was only blood that connected them, about the King of Carthage (?) about all sorts, but mostly high brow stuff that just flew over what I thought was my quite intelligent head.

At the end of the meal, I whipped my purse out hoping that he might at least offer to pay (my wallet with cash and cards had been stolen just days before and Doe-Eyes had had to lend me money for the night, all of which he knew). He didn’t offer, worked out the bill and lent me a pound to cover my share.

The final straw came when deciding which tube station to go to. He wanted to go to one and I wanted to go a different but closer one - only five minutes walk from where we were and a stop closer to home for me (and I had the longer journey). He insisted that his choice was closer, I knew it wasn’t. And for God’s sake, the polite girl in me went with his choice. Fool.

Call me crazy but this was not the sort of guy I wanted to get into a dating situation with. I mean sheesh, I look after people all the time because I like it, but is it a crime to want to be looked after from time to time.

Thankfully my tube rolled in quicker than lightning, thus preventing any embarrassing goodbyes, small talk or swapping of numbers.

I got on the tube and heaved a sigh of relief that the night was over.

it's not right that i think about you every day.
you are a part of my past that i don't want to be reminded of, and it's time to concentrate on the future.
back then i didn't know what was going on, or where i was.
i didn't know myself for all those ups and downs, the to-ing and fro-ing, the turbulence.
and now, i think about you often; i wonder what you're doing and if you think of me at all.
but it's just a waste of my time because it would never work out, and i am different now.
it's time for me to think of other things.

I have a big thing about shoes.

Big.

Strappy sandals, heels, flats, boots, knee-highs, kitten heels, round toes, flip flops, wedges. I love them.

And as much as I love them on me, I also love them on other people. This does not make me a foot fetishist, rather a purveyor of fine footwear.

One night, not so long ago, I had been out drinking with my buddy. As the night drew to an end he did what every gentleman would do and walked me to the bus stop and saw me safely onto the 98. I clambered up stairs to my find to my delight that my favourite seat was free, and as I made a beeline for it the bus driver forgot all of his clutch control and the bus lurched into action, sending me flying down the bus. As I was wearing my new baby blue, round toed kitten heels, I had a spring in my step and I managed to avoid a spectacular fall. I laughed, pulled myself together and plonked myself down.

Little did I realise that my little trip in my gorgeous shoes had caught the eye of a fellow passenger. So he was a little drunk, but he did a sweet thing…he started singing a little ditty about my shoes…

Sky blue shoes…sky blue shoes…she’s walking away wearing sky blue shooooooooes.

It was a lovely serenade and something I had never experienced before and I smiled all the way home.

However, with every love comes a dark side. And I have to admit it…I am very critical of bad footwear. I am a shoe snob.

I try so hard to avert my eyes when I see bad shoes, I try with every muscle and sinew in my body not to think bad thoughts, not to show the hapless victim the look of horror on my face. Really I do. It is a shallow, terrible flaw in my personality, an awful affliction.

I need help. I want to be a better person, really I do. I want to think good, pure thoughts about people. Not terrible, vacuous ones. But before I go off to improve myself, please can someone tell me, is there any conceivable reason why anyone, whose sole occupation is not herding cows or riding horses, should be allowed to wear cowboy boots?

I woke up in a mad bad sad mood yesterday. I cannot explain it. I don't have a reason for it, at least I don't think I have a reason for it. Hence why it's inexplicable. I still feel a little wobbly today, so rather than evoke fire and brimstone and spread this general malaise and ill feeling of mine, I am taking myself off into a corner to have a word.

In the meantime, I leave you with the wise words of Edie Brickell - she always knew what she was talking about...

Are you in bad mood? Don't you wanna talk about it? Did I say somethin' rude? You don't have to cry about it. Aren't you feelin' okay? Would you like a little company? Or did you have a bad day? Are you mad at me? -- let it show Don't tell me nothing -- I don't wanna know
There's nothing I hate more than nothing
Nothing keeps me up at night I toss & turn over nothing
Nothing could cause a great big fight Hey, what's the matter? Hey, what's the matter? What's wrong with you, what's wrong with you? Don't tell me nothing.

Some people are like signposts.

They come in to your life fleetingly because their purpose is to direct you. Like angels these signposts cannot always stay in your life because they have a particular purpose to fulfil.

Some will show you where you’ve been, while others will show you which way to turn next.

Some remind you just how far you’ve come and others show you how much further you’ve got to go.

And others can tell you that you’ve arrived when not so long ago you’d thought you were lost.

I think the age-old adage that good friends are hard to find is pretty bloody true.

Practically every chick magazine or lifestyle section in the weekend papers will contain articles harping on about how these days more and more of us have built new age families consisting of a network of our friends. It seems that whereas in our parents’ day you lived with, or pretty darn close to your nuclear and extended family, these days we tend to leave the towns we grew up in and make lives for ourselves elsewhere. This has always been a big thing for me. I really do see my mates as part of my family. My folks live 6000 miles away and while I have two big brothers who both live in London, I still find the need to have people who know me really well, close to hand.

Different people have different ideas of what makes a good friend. I’m of the ilk that a good friend is always honest with you. Some people require friends to be supportive even when they feel you may be doing the wrong thing, others just want someone to have a pint and a chat with at the pub. But we all need friends.

A couple of weeks ago I was going through a tough time. It was 1in the morning here but 2am where my Buddy was. I texted him an SOS – was it okay for me to call him? Somehow I just knew that only his voice and his words would do. He didn’t ignore it, instead he texted back that it was fine. So I called him.

He did what the best friends do. First he listened to the whole sad story, making small understanding noises, then he told me what he thought, gave me some words of reassurance, and finally he made me laugh by taking the piss out of me, my story, himself, men women, and everything.

And by the time we finished chatting it was 3am in his world. He didn’t complain or grumble, just double-checked that I had got everything off my chest, and told me that I would be okay.
I felt so much better.

I don’t know the exact recipe for a good friend, but for me they are tirelessly honest, worth their weight in gold and platinum and have a Kevlar coating to deflect any blows that you shower on them in times of extreme stress. They are experts in discretion and know when to nod sympathetically or when to offer advice. Skilled bridge builders, with the patience of angels, they always have a place for you to stay over. And in dire times, they realise heavy artillery (tea and hugs) is required because words alone will not do.

Something I saw the other day summed it up for me;
friendship
is when people know
all about you
but like you anyway

To whom it may concern

I have signed PPQ off work with a chest infection.

If anyone can tell her just how much phlegm and gunk can be produced by a 5 foot 2 and 3/4 inch person, she would be most grateful.

With rest and recuperation over the weekend she should be back on Monday.

Kind Regards

Dr Zolti

1. I am addicted to people. I can’t help it – I have an addictive personality. Consequently drugs other than booze, nicotine and caffeine are strictly off limits. There’s no telling which ditch I would end up in, arse side up, stinking and dribbling and in need of a the A&E department in the nearest hospital

2. Cliched I know but I want to write for a living

3. On first meeting me, you’ll no doubt mistake me as confident/loud/brash/scary but really I am shitting big shitty bricks on the inside

4. I am/was a hopeless romantic and I am obsessed with love. Blah blah blah, ad fucking nauseam.

5. I think too much and am prone to over analysis of everything. My friends accept this, they have to, leopards, spots, old dogs and new tricks?

6. I was on Blockbusters as a solo, but ballsed up my gold run. Fuckit who cares, it was the only ambition I had and I achieved it.

7. I was born in 1976, a Gemini, year of the Dragon

8. I hail from Nepal, a beautiful, troubled, landlocked kingdom and home of Mt Everest

9. I grew up mostly in Hong Kong and England and consequently suffers from an identity crisis most days

10. I’ve had seven boyfriends, been in love twice and constantly wonder if anyone has been in love with me

11. I believe in the concept that there isn't just one perfect person for everyone, but a handful of 'perfect fits'

12. I take pride in my eclectic taste in music but admit a penchant for cheesy pop

13. I always wanted to sing in a band but suffer terribly from stage fright...so I pretend, by singing in the shower at the top of my voice

14. I would love to play the drums (or any musical instrument for that matter)

15. I can't live without books…..or laughing

16. I love snogging…..and shagging

17. I am not prim or a prude…..but have yet to see a porn film

18. I have a screaming penchant for shoes

19. I can be a girly girl but I love kicking about with the boys in the park

20. I am a CRAP liar

21. I worry that I am not worthy

22. I am likely to change my mind without notice or warning, and reserve the right to be inconsistent

23. I am a walking bundle of contradictions

24. I love feeling needed

25. I am MAD about hugs