Saturday 19th February
Going Underground

I have spent the whole day recovering from a hangover.
Most of the morning was spent thinking I had finally done myself lasting damage as I threw up. And the afternoon spent eating the kitchen.
6:30 came.
Still in pyjamas.
Text Beaker to find out what time we were meeting.
Damn.
7:30 - 8.
I did not have the option of cancelling.
Birthday meal.
Damn.
You would think that panic had set in and I would be in the shower.
Nope.
Still sat on sofa.
Eventually move.
Shower luke warm… How? My flat mates are away, I had not washed up (are you mad??). Took make up off from yesterday.
Put on mascara and vamp red lipstick.
Piled hair on head.
Managed to leave house by 7:45.
Sitting on tube waiting for it to leave.
Guy on phone opposite.
Finished his call.
And strikes up a conversation.
Yes that’s right.
A conversation.
On the Tube.
And he’s not mad.
In fact he is fit.
South African.
And chatting me up.
He gets to his stop.
And doesn’t realise he is there until I prompt him.
And I can tell. He doesn’t want to leave.
Maybe I have some kind of magnetic pull when I am seriously hungover….?
And no, there is no happy ending.
Apart from me being chuffed and not minding that I was so hung over.
Tell you what I will try it again.
Just as an experiment you understand?

SP and I have been seeing each other for a week now. We’ve known each other for over a month and in that time I have been staggered by how honest and open he is, and how natural it feels for me to tell him stuff.

Unlike previous relationships, I just don’t feel the need to be someone who I’m not. I don’t feel that I have to hide any part of me…even those parts that I hate the most.

I’m also bowled over by how much we laugh at things.

Earlier tonight while SP and I were chatting, I felt this bubbling, rising need in me to confess something to him. Something that some of my friends know about, but something that has caused some people to ‘lose all their respect' for me when I admitted it.

I felt a bit seedy, a bit dirty, and I really wasn’t that sure how SP’d take it. Truth be known, I was more than a little concerned that he may react badly. But I threw caution to the wind;

PPQ: Errrm, SP?

SP: Yes PPQ?

PPQ: I have a confession to make

SP: Uh huh. Is it scary?

PPQ: Scary? No...you wanna hear?

SP: Yeah, shoot

PPQ: Errm...well....I....errr.....I have a penchant for ginger boys

SP: Oh

PPQ: You want to disown me then?

SP: No....You want me to dye me hair?!


And for those curious cats out there, no I don’t want him to dye his hair, but god.....laugh? I nearly wet my pants!

I like to think that I have a healthily, twisted, warped sense of humour. In fact it's one of the few of my characteristics that I actually quite like. I like things that are funny because they are obvious, or simple, or filthy or whatever. I do not however *gets on soapbox* advocate humour that is at the expense of someone else's feelings, that hurts them *gets off soapbox*

Sometimes I wish that my witty ripostes were a little faster but I know that I can take the piss with the best of them, and that for most part I can take as good as I give (thank you Big Brothers Senior & Junior for the gruelling training).

But every now and then I have a sense of humour bypass and I had one tonight when a dear friend accused me of being 'muff before mates'.

She: I was only kidding
Me: Well it's not true and it's not fair so don't bloody say that again
She: (sheepishly) Sorry
Me: (all petulant) Whatever.

Then when I got off the phone to try and watch CSI, I was all huffy.

I'll take criticism (begrudgingly admittedly), but I can not be accepting this sort of remark.

So if you'll excuse me, I'm off to continue being huffy.

Normal service will resume tomorrow.

Could it really be possible that I have actually reached the point where I have run out of things to say?

Sheesh I hope not...whatever will I keep myself occupied with?!!!!

Ho hum....

Up until a fateful weekend about a month ago, I’d pretty much given up and honestly lost my faith in the idea of finding love, thinking that I’d missed the boat, blown my chance, struck out.

And then I met him.

I couldn’t help but notice how his blue eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint, how he was kind, and funny, and so refreshingly honest. I knew he was off limits, but after he left I remember turning to Red and Bubs and saying, like a schoolgirl with a crush, “God I wish he was my boyfriend”.

I tried not to think about him in that way - my high moral codes mean that I would never go for a taken man so I stuck the warming thoughts of him in a little box and pushed him to the back of my mind.

But we began to exchange e-mails and texts and we would talk on msn for hours and I just couldn’t stop thinking about this wonderful boy for weeks.

And in some crazy, twisted miraculous turn of events, it turns out that he has been feeling the exact same way. He likes me. And we are now officially seeing each other.

There’s an air of demented incredulity hanging about me and I feel a little delirious to be honest. I haven’t yet figured out what exactly I have done to deserve a most darling boy like this, but hell, I’m not going to give him up. No sir!

And usually, I would’ve found some way to sabotage this. Fuck things up in my own peculiar way. Withhold pieces of myself, lay little traps, but this time there’ll be none of that. I don’t feel this awful free-wheeling sense of absolutely no control with him because he is so real and so open. It's a different kind of excitement all together. It's healthy and happy and it makes me smile and my stomach do a gazillion mini-flips

Bubs has a good feeling in her bones, I have a good feeling in my bones, and Boy told me that I shouldn’t hold back – I should just give it my all. And I agree, totally. So if you’ll excuse me folks, I’m off to give this relationship a bloody good shot with a new tack, no more PPQ idiosyncrasies and doubts.

Yup, I’m off to get me some happy.

Sometimes I have momentary 'Essex-blonde moments' where I do or say silly things. They can happen at any time.

The last time I had one was with Singe and Papillon Bleu...we were talking about shag shag shaggedy shagging...(sorry Andre!).

PPQ: "I make porn like a lovestar."

Singe: Muffled laughter

Papillon Bleu: Stifled laughter

All three of us: Raucous belly laughter

Oh dear! I can't wait for the next one to reveal itself.

Fed up of looking like cuddly old PPQ, I decided last weekend that I needed a change. Red dye in hand I approached my accomplice Bubs with a wry smile, “Let’s dye my hair!” Thankfully the darling girl agreed and we proceeded to get all salon selectives in the kitchen.

What I was really after was a streak of hot red in my raven black hair. A zing, a naughty streak, something different to my normal and boring barnet. I was kinda hoping for a Saffron from Republica look, all pillar box red, but I couldn’t find anything that bright so I went for the next best thing and chose 'fiery red' instead.

So Bubs got on her plastic gloves and we mixed the powdered dye and crème bleach like kids conducting a school chemistry experiment. She carefully and painstakingly applied the dye to my hair, duly covered said bits in foil and then I pranced about the house singing along to my stereo at top volume as I waited for the chemicals to start doing their stuff.

An hour and ten minutes later I was ready to wash the gunk out and see the results. In a momentary blonde lapse, I decided to wash my hair whilst in the shower. Big mistake. BIG mistake. For anyone who has ever used permanent hair dye will know that the bugger dyes your skin on contact.

So imagine the lightning speed at which I jumped out of that shower when I realised that there was a trail of bright red dye water streaking its way down the centre of my chest and all the way down my legs. I hot-footed it outta there so darn quick I tell ya, I practically winded myself as I desperately started washing the dye out of my hair in the sink, jumped back in the shower and started scrubbing my body in a vain attempt to remove the scarlet streak on my body.

After I’d safely removed four layers of skin I realised that it was futile and would just have to hope that no one would notice my stained form.

It’s been a week now and thankfully the streak has faded with every shower, and as for my hair, well I kinda like the fiery red streak, it’s subtle but catches the eye if I move my head in a certain way.

But I think I may have learnt my lesson...perhaps next time I may leave it to the professionals.

Most people know how I feel about Valentine’s Day and without sounding like a bitter, cynical singleton, I just don’t get why people need a dedicated day for telling their loved ones how much they love them. I like to think that in an ideal world you’d tell your loved ones whenever the feeling hit you and as often as you could.

But I’m not going to harp on about that this year, no sir, this year I’d rather laugh at the whole thing and share yet another story about the ex-bastard, a story which took place on Valentine’s Day three years ago. I was still at the office at 7pm, when he called me;

Ex-B “Did you get any surprises today?”

PPQ “Errm, well, the post hadn’t arrived when I left for work this morning, how about you?”

Ex-B “Yes thanks I got your lovely card….so you didn’t get anything, y’know, at work then?”

PPQ “No”

Ex-B “Not even a bunch of flowers?”

PPQ (Getting excited now) “You sent me flowers? Oh my God, how utterly lovely…but no, I didn’t get any”

Ex-B “Not even a massive, expensive bunch of flowers with orchids in?”

PPQ *Gasps* “Orchids? Orchids? My favourites…errm, no honey sorry, I didn’t, but thank you so much for the thought”

Ex-B “Bugger, I’ll have to call them up tomorrow and see what happened.”

He did call the florists up the next day only to find that, having been inundated with orders they had hired an external courier to meet the extra demands, but unfortunately even that hadn’t been enough to deliver all of their orders on time. The florists asked the EB if he would like them to re-deliver that day, the 15th instead.

The EB decided that as it wasn’t Valentine’s day anymore, he’d just take a refund.

*Sigh* I tell you what…I felt like the luckiest girl alive!

"You think too much" he said, "I'm going to call you Thinkerbell"

He’s right, I do think too much and I always have. But try as I might, I just can’t stop. And I suppose it’s not such a bad thing as long as I don’t let the thinking get in the way of me living my life.

Lately I’ve mostly been thinking about an amazing boy who makes me laugh and is running around in my mind wreaking havoc on my concentration. I think about him so much that I even find myself waking up at stupid o’clock to think about him, because dreaming is no good if I don’t remember the dream when I’m awake.

But in the brief minutes when I’m not thinking about him, I’m thinking about whether people who do bad things end up with bad things happening to them.

Ma taught me that I should always strive to treat other people how I would like to be treated. I think it’s one of the best things you could ever teach a child. So what happens if you do something (in/advertently), which ends up hurting someone?

Is there any truth at all in the age-old adage, what goes around comes around?

Aww, my head hurts...I'm off to bed, and he's right, I do think too much.

Well frankly, last night's post just didn't happen - I tried to post it five times but no cigar. I tried again this morning at 8am, and blogger arsed it up totally by only publishing one line of the damn post, and frankly it wasn't even a decent one liner. I finally gave up and saved it for another day because it didn't feel right posting it after the day's events.

You see, today was his funeral.

Pink (formerly Bride to Be) and I bundled into her little red car and drove for three hours to be there for our old school friend. There was a massive turn up and the service was beautiful, with stories of fond memories and a celebration of his life. But when I caught sight of his five year old son's rosy-cheeked face I was overwhelmed. It was just so unbearably sad. I thought about his family and wondered how they'd find the strength to get on with their lives with this void. About how his son would grow up never knowing what a funny and loving man his father was, and about how it was so unfair that this could happen to someone so young.

And then I thought about how I would be beside myself if this had happened to anyone I loved. And about how bloody lucky I am to have all of the friends and family and love that I have in my life. I mean seriously, a funeral (particularly of someone young) is so sobering that it really helps to put things in perspective.

I finally got home about an hour ago, exhausted and with a bastard of a headache, slumped myself in the sitting room with a cuppa tea and started typing. I'm glad I was there today but I'm also glad it's over.

This sucks big hairy cook.

Man alive.

I am mesmerised and totally in awe of Bruce Parry.

This man is a man who goes on expeditions to 'hang out' with cannibals, and shamans and head hunters in their natural environment. He totally adopts their way of life, and in turn they adopt him as one of their own. He is charisma personified. He subjects himself to penis inversions, piercings through the septum without anaesthetic, hallucenogenic drugs stuffed up his nose, and more. Runs through jungles, bare foot hunting animals with hand made tools. He eats armadillo and fuck off great bugs.

He is a living action man. Makes me wanna get a loin cloth out and start living in the jungle! I'm hooked, and I just can't wait to see what's in store next week.

I have been wandering around for the last 3 years hoping that I’ll find someone to walk this world with. People have told me that it will happen when I least expect it (okay – I’ve heard that one a gazillion times now – enough), that I won’t end up a cat lady (phew), that I deserve to find someone amazing and worthy of me (hmmm).

Mostly, I haven’t had a bad run at being single. I’ve had fun, I’ve re-discovered long lost friends, started a blog, had two debilitating crushes, one blind date and a short (but sweet) dalliance with a guy – I’ve had all sorts to keep me busy. But every now and then, the soul-mate-shaped void inside me throbs and I can’t help but feel achingly lonely.

I’d been going through one of those phases recently - getting a little restless, a little lonely. I was in danger of becoming boring and totally self-indulgent with my ‘woe is me I’ll never meet anyone who wants to be with me as much as I want to be with them’ attitude. *Yawn*

So imagine my surprise when I met someone a few weeks back who hit all the right buttons. Someone who ignited something inside of me, made me laugh, made me think, gave me a little of my faith back. Someone with kind eyes who I could talk to all night.

Unfortunately, as is the twisted way in which my life likes to unravel itself, he’s spoken for.

Hmmmmm. I guess this must be a case of ‘all the best men are either taken, or gay….’

Red's wondering why there isn't a sexy, gorgeous naked man in her bed right now. I'm wondering why there isn't there one in mine?

I've learned that you can't always get what you want.

*Sheryl Crow

I wake this morning feeling glum. Clambering out of my bed, everything in my usual routine appears to be set in a bleak and desolate landscape, devoid of any colour. My normally snug duvet hasn't offered any warmth or comfort in the night, the water is tepid when I shower and I feel as though that hundred-weight black blanket from my past is weighing my shoulders down.

I get like this from time to time. It's no big deal. I live it, work through it and move on. That's my way. But today, things are feeling just that little bit sharper and a little more bitter.

Anti-socially, I put my ipod on as soon as I get into work and get on with the task at hand. My work is taking twice as long for me to complete and it is frankly, sub-standard and littered with school girl mistakes, mostly because my mind is elsewhere. I am worrying myself sick about Ma & Pa who are stuck out in Kathmandu right now, with no way of contacting us here to tell us they're safe. I am dwelling on recent and past events...on the unfairness of things...I wonder about the existence of a luck gene and why the hell I didn't inherit it...if there is a god...I wrack myself with guilt about something or other...and then I worry some more about friends who have lost family members over the last few days.

I am like this all day, pensive, then petty, then pouty then childish. I am over-reactionary. Then I am full of rage.

When an e-mail conversation with a friend cuts short I get upset because my e-mail asking questions, wanting a conversation is not reciprocated. Of course, even something as small as this causes me to think the worst; they don't like me, they're trying to avoid me, they think I have ulterior motives, I've done something wrong, I'm a terrible person.

So I rebuke myself. For being over-sensitive, for letting my fecund paranoia rule me. In a split second this self-pity is replaced with a red hot rage. Fuck them and their mother, fuck everyone and their problems and their opinion of me. And then, all at once the ire subsides and I feel sorry for myself again.

I think to myself that if I met me - all self-indulgent, and grumpy, and ragey, and moany - I would not want to be my friend.

On a day like today, my worst fears about myself are true. On a day like today I hate myself. I hate my weakness, my incessant need to be loved by everyone, my total dependence on the constant reassurance I seek from those around me.

And then of course, with this censure comes even more....this is probably why you're single, why you can't get a better job, why people think you're loud and over-powering when you first meet them and blah blah blah yadah yadah yadah...ad nauseam.

This, all of this, is my stream of consciousness today, and as soon as it ends it will start all over again. For me, this is the vicious cycle that is Groundhog day.

On a day like today I just want to fuck away my troubles, my inconsistency, the voices in my head. On a day like today I want everything and everyone to leave me alone. On a day like today I can't wait to clamber into bed, to put this all behind me and start afresh in the morning.

What do you say to an old friend who calls you up after months of no contact to tell you that her brother killed himself a couple of days ago? That she’s still in shock and doesn’t quite understand it all because everyone thought he was happy.

Do you feel guilty for having been so goddamn crap at keeping in touch? Do you berate yourself for being so selfish and only thinking about yourfuckingself? Do you tell her just how sorry you are and hope to god that statement is simple enough to get her through this phonecall?

I’ll tell you what I did, I told her that I would drop everything to be there for her. Told her that of course, in the very least I would be at the funeral and then proceeded to spend the rest of the evening feeling guilty for spending it with friends, drinking wine in a bar, with shards of remorse poking at me whenever I caught myself laughing. Feeling guilty that I hadn’t just gone home, packed a bag and got a train up north there and then to lend her my shoulder. But this is not about me or about how I feel and I need to stop being so bloody self-involved.

An alarming amount of people I know have felt what it is to see the darkness that lives deep inside of them reach the surface and seep out through their pores like a vile tar. Feel so desperate that they find themselves wishing for it all to stop…entertaining those thoughts of wanting everything to end. I felt it once or twice in my past but I still hate to think about the isolation that threatened to strangle me back then. It is fleeting for some, but haunts others frequently and all their lives and some people never manage to shake it. Thank fuck, most people I know have fought these gloom-laden thoughts and vanquished them.

But some have acted on them and I don’t think I’ll ever forget the stark realisation of getting home to find the evidence scattered around. Of that utter, utter desperation that hits when you realise that you never saw it coming, or that you maybe failed as a friend. And mostly, I won’t forget my reprehensible distrust after the fact. The way I crept around making sure there was nothing left in the house that could be used to harm, the way I never believed their answers when I asked them even the simplest questions. I really thought I was helping but with hindsight, I wish I’d had the balls to just say how it felt. To say that I never wanted them to pull a stunt like that again. Ever.

Right now I feel lucky because they didn’t. But my friend wasn’t as lucky and she’s going to spend the rest of her life missing her beloved brother.

I’m just going to make sure I’m there for the funeral and that I give her the biggest, tightest hug that my might and body can muster.

And in the meantime, I'm going to tell everyone I know and love that I will not be allowing something like this to happen to them.

Sober Saturday morning e-mail to X after Friday night booze fuelled impetuous, gibbery twatty e-mail;

Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck.
Fuck to the power of fuck

I woke this morning with a sore head and a smattering of self loathing as the memory of my drunken e-mail flashed in my mind.

*Mental note* Mobile phones and latptops are banned when drunk.

I'm soooooo sorry X.
Please ignore it, and forgive me!