The ex-bastard told me he loved me within four weeks of us seeing each other. I got totally freaked out and told him that he was being stupid. I thought then that maybe there was something weird about our relationship but I thought, what the hell? And as much as I rant about him now, honestly, I do have a great affection for him. We had a fantastic 8 months together and 2 not so good ones.

Yes he was a shit to go back to ex within a week, and get engaged within a few months, but you know what? I'm glad I went through that with him, because I used to worry that I'd end up settling. Now I know that I really won't settle for second best, that I have the strength to test the water, but more importantly that I'm not that weak-willed, head-burying girl I used to be. The one who used to stay in relationships that were totally wrong for her. The abusive ones, the loveless ones, the ones where she didn't feel it for the other person, or where she felt they didn't feel it for her. I'm not her anymore, clinging to something that isn't right. I have the strength to say enough's enough now. And I can also say that the world will not end if yet another guy breaks up with me.

I can safely say I don't miss her.

The moment I met him I know he was disingenuous. The thing is, I had promised myself that I would make a concerted effort to get on with him in the very least because he was one of Dawson's closest friends.

Dawson and I had a history you see. Having moved to the Big Smoke at more or less the same time, we had met through mutual friends and moved into a shared house with two other guys. It was one of the happiest years of my life - the thrill of a new city, a new house, new housemates. Dawson and I forged a brilliant friendship from the off. I helped him to shed his geeky image for a more streetwise look, he helped introduced me to many of his friends in a town where I knew few people.

I have always believed in the motto 'Don't shit on your own doorstep' but after a couple of months of living in each others pockets, the inevitable happened and we made the mistake of going out on a pub crawl, getting leathered and snogging each other. Soon after we were boyfriend and girlfriend - we actually went well together and so I ran through the checklist in my mind, 1. He makes me laugh - check, 2. I fancy him - check, 3. he gets on with my mates - check, 4. he stimulates me intellectually - check. Added to this, he doted on me...it was near perfect. Or so I thought, because our relationship lasted all of five weeks after he called it off having developed a serious case of cold feet. I mourned the demise of yet another good relationship, pulled myself together and threw myself back into my new London life.

Dawson and I had such an affection for each other that our friendship post break up did not suffer and we remained staunch good friends. And that's how I found myself in this situation, face to face with a man whose mere presence set my teeth on edge, raised my hackles and made my skin crawl. As I sat there making idle chit chat with him, the conversation took a tangential turn and I found myself talking about infidelity to a man who I didn't like. Whose motives and morals were entirely questionable and who wholly believed that it is not right to admit to someone when you have been unfaithful to them because "it's an act borne from trying to relieve your own guilt. A totally spineless and selfish act". I was aghast. How could someone like him have so much confidence. So much self-belief?

The conversation moved on and after only 40 minutes of knowing me, he thought he knew me well enough and was within his rights to tell me that he thought I was leading Dawson on and that he didn't like it one bit. I reacted like a child in a playground spat and told him to stick it where the sun don't shine.

I thought of him again the other day - I don't know why. But I thought of all the things I should and would have said to him if I'd been stronger, if I hadn't backed down with a pathetic retort instead of a carefully articulated argument. But there's nothing I can do about that now - don't you just hate it when that happens?

He looks up expectantly and when he realises she isn't there, checks his watch and notices that it's not yet ten to nine. He gets back to the work at hand and next time he looks up she is standing there in front of him. As is the way every morning she looks a little flushed and and her eyes flit around never quite settling on him. She seems a little nervy so he smiles at her. He thinks that there is some sort of unspoken connection between them, that if the universe ever saw fit to bring them together for a proper chat they would find so much to talk about and they wouldn't stop. He wonders if she ever thinks of him and if a proper chat is at all likely. Probably not. Still, she is here now so he flashes his best smile at her, ignores his other customers and hands the cup straight to her, 'Semi-skimmed latte?' As she takes the cup her fingers brush past his ever so slightly, and she looks him in the eye. They are both aware of the tiny, fleeting frisson hanging in the air between them. 'Thank you' she says, smiling at him, and off she goes to start her day.

I've never been one for drugs.
I have an addictive personality so that would be the end of me.
I tried a couple of joints of the Rev Al Green, and I pulled whiteys every time.
And I never tried anything else.

But I have always been able to get a high from retail therapy.

We got our bonus and while I have to use most of it for practical things, I decided to treat myself today.

AND I AM ON A HIIIIIIIIGH.

Wo hoooooo!

Cripes, how rude. In my haste I completely forgot the reason for this post....which was to ask if you could treat yourself to anything right now, what would it be?

Just for once I would like you to look me in the eye and try to see me. Not the me that you think I am, or think I should be, but the real me. I am utterly done in with your opinion of me. I am tired of trying to prove to you that I am worth knowing. I am devoid of any emotion for you now because if you cannot take the time to get to know me then you can go suck eggs for all I care. If you think that your sly-looked disparagement will change me, well you're wrong. I have always worried about people not liking me, I am needy and finding out that people don't like me has always bothered me like one of those insect bites that you can barely see, but with its incessant itching that you know is definitely there. But recently, over-exposure to people like you who has hardened me and my evolution over the last 28 years that I have walked this earth is quickening. Now I am developing the thick, impenetrable skin of a pachyderm. A skin that is immune to the poison of your barbed comments and I can honestly say that I don't give a fuck if you don't like me. Because I can safely say that I don't need your acceptance. I know that I am a better person than you because I give real chunks of myself to people and I always give them a chance. I will not seek your approval anymore. So you can keep your small minded subtle vitriol to yourself.

I had been feeling a little melancholy recently; my insomnia was beginning to drive me insane, my smile was fake and plastic and my boss' gross incompetence means I teeter on the verge of hysteria on a daily basis.

They say a change is as good as a rest and I agree heartily, so my recent sojourn in Worcester was a real tonic, a pick-me-up, just what I needed. And while I managed to fit in solid sleep, retail therapy and a corking night out in Worcester, my two days there also brought to my attention a side to my personality that had remained dormant for some time...I suffer from Rude Rage.

I have been accused of not exploding when things really piss me off. I have been told that my apparant inability to just get bloody angry can be annoying. Various people have also informed me that I can be 'too nice'. But the thing is, I don't think any of this is true. At least, it is not true of the PPQ who I know and I wonder if some doppelganger has been passing themself off as me.

In truth, while I try to avoid confrontation, I can get just as angry as the next person.

Now I'll admit, that when I'm driving I have at times been reduced to a cussing, fist-shaking road rager, but I hasten to add that this ire only surfaces when I am well and truly wronged by another driver.

But that is quite rare, and there are some things that....just.....make......me.......MAD. Vein-popping, temple-throbbing, shouting-at-the-top-of-your-voice, red-faced, hopping mad.

And when I was in Worcester, I noticed something. People were polite. They smiled and held open doors for me, they said thank you when I did the same, they apologised for accidentally bumping into me. And I just didn't know myself for all the manners and kindness that abounded.

You see, I CANNOT abide rudeness. There is absolutely no need for it if you ask me. well, unless...unless of course you really are pushed to it.

So, I have something to say....
-To the arsey cashier at Tesco Metro who threw my stuff around and wouldn't look at me whilst snatching my money out of my hand
-To the rude twat of a business man who let the lift doors snap shut just as I was trudging in like a laden mule with laptop, gym kit and handbag
-To the knobber lady who almost knocked me over in her zealous effort to get one of a gazillion sparkly tops before me
-To the munting Chav who sped through a lake-sized puddle in his customised-to-shit Chavmobile at 70mph drenching me when I was dolled up for a night out

To all of you rude bastards, I say, fuck you you fuck-faced fuckers.

I've been told I have a baby face - it's nothing new. I look younger than I am, and in ten years time when people mistake a nearly forty year old PPQ for someone in her late twenties, I will be very flattered.

So imagine my chagrin when I GOT IDd WHEN I WAS BUYING CIGARETTES!!!

I mean seriously - there is absolutely no good in being in your late twenties if you don't look old enough to buy fags and booze is there?

Well, sod this for a game of soldiers, I'm off to Worcester for a mini break.

Have great weekends y'all.


Babyface x

She can not for the life of her remember who started talking first.

She casts her mind back to that time, when she felt alive and could feel the blood rushing around her body, but decides that it is irrelevant who started it, because from that moment they both discovered that they could talk to each other with such an ease that it was as if they forgot themselves.

Accustomed to long hours at work, they would both find themselves counting the hours down during the day so that they could rush back, immune to the usual stress of the rumpled suits, the contorted bodies packed like sardines in a tin, the huffing and puffing and tutting of the daily commute. One of them would invariably turn up with a bottle of wine and they would talk for a mini eternity, often until the small hours of the morning. No subject was off limits, nothing seemed awkward and like some quirky treasure seekers they would turn every stone to discover every last morsel.

Reluctantly, at four or five in the morning they would leave each other in some small vain attempt to catch a couple of hours sleep before work began. Then they’d find themselves in front of their pcs, thinking up new subjects to discuss, wondering what the other was doing, watching the tortuously slow revolutions of the second hand. Until finally they would be free to start their ritual again.

It has been a few years since then and she still can’t help but smile when she reminisces. And even though time and circumstance have separated them, they both know that they can still talk like they used to, tirelessly, no holds barred and with abandon.

Still, deep down she knows that it is inevitable that this will change, that yet more circumstance and human intervention has already put a time limit on this, one which is out of their hands. But she likes to cling to what they've got for now, because not having this in her life just doesn’t bear thinking about.

She often wonders how things would be if they had made a different choice. If they had been chancers and thrown caution to the wind. But just as soon as this thought enters her head its destructive nature kills it like a lysosome – an occupational hazard perhaps – and it is quickly replaced with something else. Yes, she remembers now that she needs to tell him about this funny thing which happened today because like her, he would find it hysterical…

I'm sorry.

I haven't had much to write about recently so I seem to be chucking out a few of these things what I have learned. I did have something else planned today but another night of insomnia has rendered me incapable of stringing a sentence together coherently. I can barely type. I need an innoculatte - shot of caffeine straight to the veins.

But here it is...number 4 in the series....

Boys like bitching just as much as girls do...

...they're just a lot better at hiding it than girls are.

Watski got there before me but I have to tell you, Christmas had already crept onto the High Street, the TV, the media...just about everywhere.

I love Christmas. Really, I do. Even though I wasn't really brought up with Christmas celebrations and we had Dasain and Diwali instead, Christmas always held a twinkly charm for me when I was a young 'un. Father Christmas, snow, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, the Baby Jesus and the nativity, Elves, presents, the smell of mulled wine, Christmas dinner. Mmmm.

When I was 22 I got my first ever stocking. My buddy CT and her family had taken me in for Crimble as I couldn't afford the flight home to visit my folks. On Christmas Eve I helped out with last minute decorations, wrapping pressies and preparing the feast ahead of us. After a night of copious amounts of wine, delicious food, Christmas TV and Trivial Pursuit, I went to bed content as a child. The next morning we woke up early, climbed onto CT's folks' bed, like the early twenties children that we were, and we spent the morning opening pressies from our stockings in our pajamas. It was ace. The best Christmas ever.

But for the last five years, Christmas has lost its charm. It has become the bane of my working life (retail marketing) because every year I have to start working on the Christmas campaign in August. By the time Christmas actually arrives, all my festive good cheer and Christmas enthusiasm has been sapped! This has earned me the nickname Scrooge because usually at this point of the year I've had enough, banned any Christmas music from the office and cancelled Christmas.

But I don't wanna be like this anymore. I want to get excited, and be happy and Christmassy and jolly.

I want some ho ho ho this year.

Is that too much to ask for?

5 characters aged between 18 and 70 to appear in a novel.
All welcome to apply regardless of sex, sexuality, social class, occupation and race.

Please apply with name, age and occupation to the usual comments box.

There has been a lot of talk about pants recently. A lot.

Everyone seems to have pants on their minds, Unlucky has mostly been lounging about in his, JonnyB has a never ending supply of dirty (and now clean) pants, I've been asked to remove mine (ooh-err!) - it's almost as if some sort of underwear frenzy has settled over blogsville.

But really, pants are great aren't they? I get such a kick out of wearing matching underwear, but have to admit that I also get a buzz when I know I'm not going anywhere special and I can just chill at home in sloppy gear and big, comfy pants.

Back when I was a kid I used to love my pants with the days of the week on, they were pretty and functional but I also loved the onset of winter because my mum would dig out my Damart thermal pants that came up to my chin. Mmmm, they were toasty.

Ahhh yes, pants. Even the word brings a smile to my face.

So imagine my unfettered glee when I discovered that there is now a range of PPQ underwear. My very own range of personalised pants.

Clearly, the Pants Gods are looking down on me with a smile and a pat on the bottom.

It doesn't matter what you do, or how hard you try...you cannot make someone love you.

But that doesn't mean you shouldn't stick around for a little while to find out if they already do.

Andre has been kind enough to ask me to to guest post for him this Friday. For those of you who don't know him already, there aren't really enough good things I can say about him, but I'll tell you this much - he's a fighter. He's also brutally honest and creative and talented. An all round good egg.

I can not step into his shoes, but I have posted and I hope you all think it's okay.

See you over there?

My posts have been pretty maudlin/self-wallowing/dark/over-analytical* of late.
(*please delete as appropriate)

Most people who know me know that I think too much. Way too much. I have an innate inability to just let things happen without then spending nine months analysing it all. On the upside it means that I'm not very often short of material to blog about, on the down side it can mean that it can all get very miserable and boring.

Today though, working from home and frustrated by the fact that I can't dial up to the server, I decided to take an early lunch break and write a lighter post.

I popped to the shops on the way home last night to pick up a few provisions for the working-from-home day ahead, bits and pieces for lunch, milk for the endless cups of tea, that sort of thing. As I was wondering round the shop eyeing up all the lovely food on offer, I chuckled to myself thinking about how, on being asked what her favourite food is, Bubs will always reply 'Sandwiches' as her eyes light up.

Of all the food available to anyone in the world, and bearing in mind that Bubs and I have grown up with some of the best cooks in the entire universe (our mums), I had always thought Bubs' choice a little, well, (forgive me Bubs), wishy washy.

And then I rememered something.

I was blinded by a flash of my past life at university, standing in the communal kitchen with my mate Blondie, hunched over our food cupboards desperately scrabbling around trying to find ingredients. On the counter before us, light emanating from it like a holy relic, the hallowed Breville sandwich toaster.

As impoverished students, Blondie and I lived on toasted sandwiches. We'd managed to get our weekly shop at Tescos down to about a fiver thanks to this straight-from-the-heavens invention. Baked beans, crazy cheeses, sweetcorn, jam and bananas, no ingredient was too plain or too crazy for the Breville, for as the cocoon turns a relatively plain caterpillar into a beautiful butterfly, so the Breville turned the humble sandwich into ambrosia.

Today I have treated myself to a toasted sandwich. It's an old favourite that Blondie and I came up with, blue stilton, wafer thin honey roast ham and red onions. On on this occasion, if anyone asked me what my favourite food was, I may just have to agree with Bubs.

But I reserve the right to change my mind without notice of course.

I have exhausted myself thinking about this one, tossed and turned, lain awake at night trying to figure it all out, but it’s just no use.
I don’t get it.
I am truly baffled and my ghast is flabbered.

See I totally get how you can meet someone, get to know them, fall into a friendship and think they’re ace. Then as time moves on and the seasons change you can start to realise that you fancy them. That you can’t wait to see them, that you think of something during the day that you think they would find funny. I understand that because to me, that is an honest, genuine thing.

But thinking right from the off that there is something more between you than just a chat, a pint and a packet of crisps at the pub. Wanting to know much more about them. Feeling a pull between you that knocks you breathless and prevents you from thinking about anything other than wanting to get naked with them, to see their clothes on your floor. But then as quickly as you felt all of this, realising that you don’t feel any of it anymore. This is what I have trouble understanding…having that compulsive attraction one minute and then changing your mind a blink of an eye later. Because if you felt that initially, wouldn’t you want to take the time to find out whether it was worth hanging on to? Wouldn’t you want to take a chance?

Love is blind.
I'll say.

Good things come to those who wait
Yeah? So just how long do I have to wait?

If you love somebody, set them free. If they come back to you they're yours forever.
But I bet they're soiled and broken when they come back. And someone else has man-handled them.

You always want what you can't have, and then when you have it you don't want it.
I want what I want. That's why I want it. And when I have it I'm happy. People who want what they can't have should try wanting what they can have.

Smile, it may never happen.
It already happened Pal. That's why I'm not smiling.

What doesn't kill you will make you stronger.
Bollocks. And besides, what about Polio?

Nice guys finish last
So nice guys are losers?

The truth is somewhere in between.
Huh?

Awww, come on. Who in chuffing hell was responsible for this tripe? Shouldn't there be laws against this sort of thing?

It never ceases to amaze me just how much that I don't know about the differences bewteen men and women. And to be honest, I like not knowing the answers because it's so much more fun this way.

Recently I've been spending time with Moonchild and some of her mates. They are mostly boys (ooooh!) and they are just ace. Friendly, chatty and funny, they have welcomed me into their social group with open arms.

We talked about all sorts, we put the world to rights, we got drunk, and then we started talking about the differences between men and women.

Apparantly us women can get a shag anytime we want because we are in a buyer's market. It doesn't matter what we look like or even what our personalities are like because we, and I quote, "can walk up to practically any man in a bar and get a shag."

Admittedly, I have heard this theory once before from an old friend, but I poo-pooed his theory, laughed at him and told him to go and have a word with himself. And then just to make sure he would never speak of such a half-arsed idea again, I told him he had a small penis. So imagine my surprise to hear of it again, from a different man.

I pashawed said man, and turned to ask his fellow males what they thought of his cockamemee theory.
"Well, it's true isn't it?" they proferred.

A straw poll of the five guys who were there followed, based on the following scenario;
A woman is standing in a bar full of single, hetero men. She asks each and every man if they would like to shag her, what percentage of men would turn her down.

Our poll revealed that on average, 20% would say no.

I am shocked. That means 80% would say yes.
I think I must be doing something very wrong. Either that or I look like a man!