Don't ask me why cos I don't have any answers...the thing is, I seem to have this penchant for collecting ex-boyfriends. I haven't yet figured out if this is a trait common to most women or if I'm alone, but whenever I am dumped I get this relentless urge to stay in touch with the man who has ripped my still beating heart out of its cavity and jumped up and down on it. Is it tomfoolery? Is it a desperate attempt to hang on by a thread in the hope that they might take me back? Or is it clever survival tactics - a bid to reach closure that little bit more quickly? Mostly I think that it's a shame to sever all ties with someone who you've essentially shared every soupcon of your life with, someone who you care about and who hopefully cares for you. I've always thought of boyfriends as friends with benefits, and I believe that to lose a friend is just careless. Then again, many is the time when I've envied those people who can just cut someone or thing (that causes them untold amounts of grief) out of their life, turning their backs on the pain and never once turning even the sneakiest backward glance. Is it better to be able to cut off, walk away, cauterize the pain in an instant? Or am I better off the way I am, immersing myself in the agonizing memories like dipping myself in a vat of acid, habitualising myself to the pain so that I can one day face myself and every one else without smarting? I'm not sure I'll ever be any the wiser, and okay some may think I'm stupid to stay in touch with ex-bastards, and so-called friends who crossed the line but on the whole I'm pretty glad that I did, because the worst thing to happen was someone cutting me off completely, and the best was to gain some steadfast mates.

The day we met I was looking rough as a dog. I was absolutely exhausted having driven to Cardiff and back to help out a friend, my hair was a mess, I was dressed in slouch gear and I was hungover.

He was in silhouette when I first clocked him, but I knew there was something special in t he air. After the introductions, the hugs and the obligatory kisses on both cheeks (well, I am asian, oh okay, and a little posh – hah!), I distinctly remember checking out his arse. Mmm.

This meeting had been months in the making and had called for intricate planning and painstaking details. And it was all worth it. All four of us got on like a house on fire…there were no awkward moments…we shared similar senses of humour and felt as though we were old friends. In short, that night was genius.

And that was the night I met him. SP. The boy with the kind, smiling eyes.

After the weekend had passed I tried to forget about him because he was somebody else’s boyfriend. I managed to think of him as a mate for weeks, but then one night he called me up and told me how he felt. How he felt about me. And how I’d been wandering around in his mind since the day we met, but he just didn’t know what to do. And I just couldn’t believe my luck…he felt this way about me.

But wait. The girlfriend.

I thanked him. No one has ever said such beautiful things to me. No one has felt this strongly that they felt compelled to tell me. But that was by the by. There was nothing we could do because he was in a relationship, and it would be wrong for us to embark on something. SO wrong.

And he agreed.

But just a few weeks later he decided that wasn’t enough. He made some big changes in his life. He was single again.

And now we are together.

He makes me laugh, and I mean real, deep belly laughs, he makes me feel wanted and happy and healthy, he is the Derek to my Clive and he gives me the horn. He is kind and brilliant and everyone loves him. And, well folks, as clichéd as it is, thank BLOG I found him…because yes, he is a fellow blogger.

And I think it’s about time you met him…fellow bloggers, ladies and gents, he's been walking amongst you all for months now and we'd like to reveal his real superhero identity...so back up...take a deep breath and please meet my guy…Mr Bonobo Love…

The moment I hear her timid voice on the other end of the line I know she is all mine. Frankly I'm a little fucking fed up with being treated like we're second class citizens just because we're the smaller sister company of a high street bigwig, and yeah I know it's not exactly her fault, but dammit, she's a good place to start. Her insolence is grating on me so hard that it's leaving my nerve ends red and raw. I never throw my weight around, and I only play my hierarchy card in extreme situations as a last resort, but today things are differrent, today I will not be kowtowing, today I am braying for the blood of this cocky, young subservient. I mean what the hell is wrong with a little bit of respect, buttering up the people higher up in order to get what you want, with a bit of brown-nosing? That's what it was like in my day fer Chrissake. I straighten myself out, you've picked the wrong manager to deal with missy I think and I select my words very carefully, grabbing as many harsh, clipped consonants as possible, so let me get this straight...you're asking me if you can sign off my promotion? The promotion that was our brainchild, the promotion that you decided to jump on the back off? You, a lesser spotted junior? I can hear the terror in her voice, she stumbles and panics like a lost child in the black night and with a tremor in her voice she answers me almost inaudibly, ahhh, errrm....uh...errrm yes. She doesn't know what else to say to me and I am taking great pleasure in her apparent anxiety. Mwuh ah ah ah ah...yes, I am Queen Bitch today...I'm going to have fun here....by the time I'm done with her she will be begging me for forgiveness....no more Mr Nice Guy......

We interrupt this programme to announce that PPQ is in a stinky, big, foot-stomping, red-face inducing, girly, stroppy, FUNK!

We do apologise for any inconvenience this may cause and assure that normal service will resume tomorrow.

Thank you.

I'm sat at my PC trying desperately to find the words that are evading me. It's meant to be a letter of notice, a letter which will inform our landlord that although we've loved our time in the flat, one of us is taking a step onto the property ladder elsewhere and the rest of us can't afford to stay on. Nor can we afford to risk another stinker of a housemate, so the time has arrived for us to move on. But no matter what I type it ends up sounding like something that a beligerent ten year old has written. But then, perhaps this is maybe because I feel like a beligerent ten year old right now and I feel this way because this letter, this notice of intent to leave our den of kitsch, means that in two months time we will need to have found a new flat which we can afford, that the whole, relentless, tedious cycle of trawling the properties to let section, the endless viewings, the dealings with slithering estate agents, the pack, move, unpack, all of that has landed on our laps once again. It occurs to me that while I had (past tense see?) been wandering around hoping that I’d find someone to walk this earth with, I've also been looking for a place to call home. That in my twenty eight earthly years I have lived in twenty earthly homes. That I am tired, tired, tired of moving, of not being able to buy things for my home, or decorate, or settle. Of not being able to get a little comfortable, sink my toes into the gaps in between the cushions on the sofa, or let my roots grow just the teensiest bit. After a few laboured hours I finally finish this stinking letter and as I print it off and put it in my bag for my housemates to sign, I resent it because it symbolises that my life as an itinerant has not yet ended.

Please excuse the mess round here while the builders are in and renovations are taking place.

There has been a little bit of blog doom in my world recently.

Firstly it's becoming more and more difficult to blog from work. Ever since our office move from Fitzrovia to the less salubrious but oh-so-exciting Soho, it appears that our internet servers have slowed right down. Of course, I suspect there's more to this than meets the eye, there must be some dark, corporate force at work here, but basically it means that websites now take almost an eon to load up. Then of course whenever I leave a comment the connection times out and my lengthy comments are victim to the comment-guzzling, cyber-ether monster (Anne - I wrote practially a thesis for you yesterday!). So, what I'm saying is, I am still reading you Blogsville, but I only get a chance to comment when I'm at home now.

Secondly, I learned a valuable lesson the hard way last night whilst twiddling with my template at work. Of course, the alarm bells should be ringing here as slow servers and frequent time outs and crashes are just recipe for disaster, but oh no, that didn't stop me.

So there I am at about half five, most people had left and there iss a pleasant quiet hush over the office, I am tippy tapping at my keyboard...
Connection times out
PPQ decides to leave it and closes internet browser
PPQ assumes (see Things what I have learned # 5 ) that no changes will have been saved as she hadn't clicked on 'save changes'
An hour later PPQ publishes her week-daily post
PPQ collapses in a heap as she realise that by publishing her blog, her old, bespoke template is lost to the world
Formerly static PPQ-heap starts flailing and wailing when she realises that she hadn't saved her template anywhere.

*NOTE TO SELF*
Always, ALWAYS save a back up copy of your template. ALWAYS.

Fellow bloggers, learn from my mistakes please...let my fool hardy ways serve some purpose at least.

I came out of the closet to one of my oldest friends a few weeks ago. For some reason unbeknownst to me I was so nervous about him reading anything I'd written. Maybe it's because he is ruled by his head, while I am ruled by my heart, or because when faced with adversity he gets through all of the kack with a grin on his face, whereas I tend to let life beat me down too easily and find it easy to succumb to the darkness that seeps into my veins once in a while. Maybe it's because I have an admiration for him which compels me to try and be a better version of me than the me I tend to think I am (and the one I don't very much like).

Whatever the reason I decided I needed to tell him about my secret blogging lifestyle, so with my heart in my mouth I wrote him an e-mail telling him all about this little place of mine, told him where to find it, told him he didn't have to read it if he didn't want to but that I'd feel proud if he did. I was stupidly nervous.

But I wasn't nervous because I knew he'd rip the piss out of me, on the contrary, throughout our friendship of ten years I've actually actively sought his piss-taking. It's a sign that we're a-okay, that we're still mates, that we still enjoy taking the piss out of each other.

Instead I was nervous that he wouldn't take the piss out of it. That he'd find nothing worthy of piss-taking. That he wouldn't like it. That he'd think I was no good whatsoever at writing. That I wasn't worth the cyber space I took up.

But instead, I got an e-mail back from him that put a massive, ear-to-ear grin on my chubby face...Your blog is great. Brimming with slushy girl pap.

That may not sound like much to anyone else, but to me it said a thousand words and it meant a whole lot.

If I was given the chance to have just one day of my life back, I'm not entirely sure I could choose one...could you?

1 Take one gaggle of housemates, glutted on a hearty dinner and plonk in front of the TV

2 Pre-heat the oven to Gas mark 4

3 Take four apples of your favourite variety (I Iike to use 2 Gala and 2 Granny Smiths), core, peel and slice up into small pieces. Place in a pan with two tablespoons of water, a handful of sultanas, a teaspoonful of sugar and an avaricious pinch of ground nutmeg and cinnamon. Heat gently, stirring regularly until the apples begin to lose their shape a bit.

4 In a large bowl measure out 8oz of plain flour, add 3 oz butter which has been at room temperature and start to mix with your fingers. Once the butter has been evenly dispersed and your mixture resembles stodgy bread crumbs, add -4oz of soft brown sugar and mix well.

5 Pour the apple mixture into an oven proof dish, layer the crumble mix on top and place in the oven on the top shelf for about 30-40 minutes, until the crumble is golden brown.

6 Serve with fresh single cream to your gaggle of housemates who have by now digested and created a little bit of space in their pudding compartments.

7 Take your seat in front of the telly with the housemates, tuck in to your apple & sultana crumble and hear the collective, contented sigh.

If I closed my eyes tight and held my breath long enough, would it be enough for me to disappear? Could I orb out of this place and transport myself to another world where I would never have to speak to you again, or feel guilty for the fact that I dislike myself for feeling this way? Your blatant disregard for those around you tires me so much so that I just want to drag myself into bed and forget about you while the world keeps on spinning around me. But instead I find myself wide-eyed and wondering just how you get away with it...the total lack of self-awareness, the ability to transpose your faults and all blame onto others. I feel as though I am beginning to rue the day I met you and mourn all the time I spent with you, so much so that with every unintentional bad thought my rage throbs and grows that little bit more, and I imagine myself getting so inflated with evil air that I explode into smithereens.

You told me that whenever we are apart and we go to sleep at night, our souls leave our bodies and home in on each other, so that they can spend the night together. You told me that this is why we wake up in the mornings feeling refreshed and happy after a blissful night’s slumber even though we are in different places. And you know what? I believe you, and I believe in that other world, those astral plains, where every night we find each other and make love whilst we float amongst the stars.

Having been confined to an all girls’ boarding school since the age of 10, by the time we were all 16 we were foaming at the mouth and gagging for it.

I was desperate for my first romantic encounter, a snog, a boyfriend perhaps? But Ma had banned me from having one, insisting that my studies and my A levels were my priority, and that once I’d finished them and got a place at uni, then, and only then, could I have a boyfriend. I was not best pleased.

And even to this day Ma doesn’t know that I disobeyed her.

JR and I met in Wales whilst on a week-long field trip for our biology A level. He was sweet and kind and into music (some of questionable taste) in a big way.

The rules of the study centre were that we could not leave the grounds after 11pm, that all course notes had to be written up that night in preparation for the next day’s lectures, no booze allowed, but cigarettes were.

JR and I would rush to the labs straight after dinner and finish our work as quickly as we possibly could so that we could spend a few hours together before retiring for the night. Once done we would find each other and go and sit by the wall, huddled together for warmth, sharing cigarettes, looking at the starry sky, finding out about each other and kissing. We would kiss and kiss and kiss until my face was raw from his stubble, oblivious to the whipping winds and icy cold tendrils that crept around us in the black night.

When the end of the week came we were joined at the hip, and so devastated at the prospect of leaving each other. We bid each other adieu with tender kisses and the promise to write and phone as often as humanly possible.

And we did for about two months. Until the day he sent me a letter telling me that we lived too far apart and he didn’t see a future for us. I was a little sad about it, but if the truth be told I was totally relieved as I felt so wretched for lying to Ma. And besides, he was only really a practice boyfriend right?

Blondie and I go back a long way...ten years long in fact.

Way back when I was a petrified fresher my pal DP had kindly offered to drive me to uni as my parents lived abroad. I was utterly grateful as I was so scared of leaving my nest of school friends who'd known me for most of my life, and totally convinced that no one else would like me or get me the way they did. DP totally confounded my fears by giving me a superb pep talk all the way there;

DP: PPQ you are wonderful and if people meet you and don't realise, then sod them. Move on. It's their loss and I feel sorry for them.

PPQ: Nods furiously

DP: You're funny, you're intelligent, you're brilliant. You must remember these things....and don't worry, I won't leave you until at least one person talks to you

PPQ: Nodding more furiously, terrified now that no one will talk to me and that DP will have to spend her days at my uni while missing her own freshers week.

Well we got there, and as I was trying to find my kettle to make a cuppa, Blondie and two other girls (who we spent the rest of our uni careers trying to shake off), bundled in to my room sporting huge grins

Blondie: (in a thick Northern accent) Hiya cock

PPQ: I beg your pardon? (thinking - how bloody rude, she doesn't even know me and she's already calling me a cock)

Blondie: Oh sorry love, it's a term of affection, you know, cock? Like love or duck?

PPQ: Oh right! (feeling sheepish) Err, sorry, right yes, hullo! (smiling now - wow, my first real life Northener, typical ignorant Southerner me)

From that day on Blondie and I did most things together. She was the first person I told when I lost my virginity (dammit, I ran across the corridor to her room as soon as it happened!), we would gibber and laugh and make toasted sandwiches together. We were great friends.

Over the years our friendship has survived, it's suffered a big low (and I still look back and kick myself for being a young, naive, selfish twat), we lost touch for while, found each other again, and more recently have re-discovered what made us such great friends in the first place.

Stupidly we had only been seeing each other about twice a year despite both living in London, but these days we get together far more frequently over copious amounts of booze and bar snacks in a cozy little cafe bar in Soho. We don't bother inviting anyone else to join us because, frankly, they wouldn't get a damn word in edgeways.

Last night was one of those nights, and I had an ace time...we've grown up some but essentially we're still the same, it's just that we're better versions of those fresh-faced girls that we were ten years ago.

Now we don't take each other for granted, we're more supportive and we totally appreciate each other now.

But dammit, I blame her entirely for this raging hangover that I'm suffering now!

It’s hard to believe, with my screaming penchant for shoes and handbags, and well, most things girly, that when I was a kid, this here PPQ was a bit of a tom-boy.

Being the youngest child and sole daughter in my family with two elder brothers, I didn’t really have any sisterly role models. Instead (and much to their chagrin) I used to follow my brothers around like a little puppy, copying their every move, mimicking every thing they said.

I used to wear little shorts and trainers, kept my hair short in a boyish pudding bowl cut, and begged my Ma to let me wear their hand-me-down stripy t-shirts so I could look just like them. I just didn’t want to be a girl.

I totally idolised them and was utterly desperate to impress them and I couldn’t have been prouder of myself than the day I got my first (and only) black eye whilst playing touch rugby with them and all the other grown up boys in the park.

I was going for the kill – chasing one of the big boys in an attempt to prevent him scoring a try, and so when I touched him and rendered his goal attempt moot, he turned round swiftly to see the face of his opponent and elbowed the much shorter me, accidentally in the eye. Everyone gathered round me in a hushed huddle, breaths held tightly, expectant, waiting for me to cry – both Big Brother Senior and Big Brother Junior had blanched, terrified that Ma would have a shit fit at them for not taking care of me …but instead I stood up defiantly and laughed.

Several years later when I got to university, I was still dressing like a boy. I didn’t quite get make up and girl clothes and I would mostly be found wearing my regulation black jeans, chocolate brown 8 hole Doc Marten’s and a long-sleeved black tee adorned with Pearl Jam or the Levellers or some other indie band de jour.

And then one day something in me just clicked. I AM A GIRL. And from that day on I was hungry to learn about fashion and accessorising and make up and shoes…mmmm, yes…shoes.

These days I like being girly, being a woman. And from time to time I even like feeling a little like a Princess, but despite all of that, if I’m in the park on a sunny day with my mates and someone gets out a ball or a Frisbee then I’m one of the first to throw my shoes off, roll my sleeves up and join in.

There will always be a little bit of tom-boy to this PPQ, so can you imagine just how bloody excited I was when SP suggested we go camping when the weather warms up? I…..AM….SO…..EXCITED there just aren’t the words for it! Just as long as he realises of course that I’ll be taking a car full of clothes and shoes for all eventualities, a duvet and an air mattress! Oh okay, I jest…(well, actually, I am taking a duvet). But blogsville, I have never been camping and I am so looking forward to it.

And so as I begin to wish away my days until my impending adventure, I find myself wondering if there is a boy equivalent to tom-boy syndrome? I mean, do boys grow up wanting to wear heels and make up? Do they dream of being the perfect host at a wonderful dinner party, having a fabulous pair of breasts and what not?

Most people who know me know how I feel about hugs and cuddles, mostly that I love them and can’t live without them. If I could start a religion it would be some crazy cuddle cult because folks, I belieeeeeve in the power of hug.

There are some great things about being in a relationship, companionship, unconditional love, regular sex, support and a feeling of home to name but a few. But one of my favourite things has always been waking up to someone in the morning and having a cuddle. Needless to say, ffor me the hardest thing about being single was always the ‘bed’s too big without you’ syndrome. But these days it seems that help is at hand for those singletons who crave cuddles…ladies and gentlemen…the cuddle party…where you can pop along and cuddle strangers without having to worry about anything.

Well, dang, that would’ve been helpful back then…

Three years ago when I found myself newly single (again) I spent an inordinate amount of time in bed trying to heal my broken heart. In that time I found myself adopting a new sleeping style, scrunched up into the teeniest ball on one side of the bed, leaving almost two thirds of the it a vast empty and empty expanse.

As time moved on and I began to feel better about myself, that sleeping ball slowly but surely began to unfurl and eventually I was sleeping more freely. But I still felt that ineffable ache that comes with realising that you go to sleep every night in a double bed that feels way too big, a bed that you rattle about in and that is half full, and every morning I would wake up missing those morning cuddles dreadfully.

I realised a while back that my sleeping style is indicative of the way I’m feeling about life in general. The child’s pose slumber ball suggests that I am finding things a little tough and trying, whilst sleeping diagonally across my bed, taking up as much space as I can normally means that I’ve managed to look insomnia in the eye and tell it to fuck off, that I feel quite chipper on the whole.

It’s telling, I think, that I had been adopting the latter of the poses (the sleep sprawler) when SP and I met. Maybe my general outlook on life meant I was more open to some wonderful boy wondering into my life. Maybe my lack of insomnia (touch wood) meant I was less grumpy and more approachable, a little funnier, a little friendlier?

Whatever it was I’m bloody grateful because now when the SP is round, I get my morning cuddles. And okay, when he’s not around I miss them, but I know I’ll be getting them again soon.

A real friend is someone worth fighting for

Do you believe that once in a world far from here and suspended in time, we met? That since that meeting we have been bumping into each other without realising in a land of REMs and dreamscapes? That we’ve been wandering through our lives unaware, but hoping subconsciously, that we were soon to meet again. Do you think this, all of this, was meant to happen? That there was some small plan tucked away into a hidden crevice somewhere in the universe, marked with our names. Do you believe in all of that? Because as I stand before you and I see myself mirrored in miniature in your beautiful eyes, I realise that you feel like home.

At some point in a blogger's cyber life they will invariably suffer from a bout of online-foot-in-mouth syndrome. You know how it is, your blog is your own space on the intwerweb, your own personal soapbox where you can write whatever you want, express opinions, hone your writing skills, keep a journal of your life. The fact that other people can come and read what you write is just a bonus because really, if you wanted to keep it private, you would, but you don't.

So then what you have is a space of your own. A place where you feel comfortable enough to say what you want, right? Well...wrong actually, because with other people reading there will always be a danger that you may write something that could offend or hurt someone else. But, and it's a big but, I like to think that no one deliberately writes inflammatory posts in order to scar and wound people.

But that's the risk you take when writing in a medium that allows joe public and his dog to read your work, right? The blogger must take caution not to upset the reader right? Merrrp. Wrong again, because actually in my humble opinion, I think it's the reader who should take caution.

And let me qualify...as a reader of other people's blogs, no one has forced me to read anyone's work. I do not have a gun to my head. If I find a blog boring or unreadable and just plain offensive, I can use my hand, guide my mouse and click elsewhere. If I read a blog and I see a well written, intelligent site that I wouldn't mind becoming a regular of, I can do that too. Hell, if I read a post I particularly like, I can leave a comment. I can even join in with a debate via comments box if I see a fellow blogger's well articulated point of view regardless of whether their opinion has caused me pain or offence.

At no point do I see it is any business of mine to leave a bastarding fuckwit comment/send a vacuous e-mail which accuses the blogger of being bland and boring and bitchy and whatnot. Or that claims the blogger has no sense of justice, or reality or humour. Because if you ask me, that's just not cricket.

He exuded confidence. At least, I thought he did at the time but thinking about it now I'm wondering if it may have been arrogance, but well, that's by the by. The thing is despite his godawful joe bloggs jeans and the gargantuan chip on his shoulder re: not having been to university, something about him struck me leaving me like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Something about him sent shivers down my spine and rendered me powerless to make any rational, well thought-out judgements so when he leant over to kiss me, I didn't think, I just reciprocated.

At the time, my gang of mates and I had just finished uni and rather then finding ourselves in the flash clothes and flashier jobs that our glittering academia-filled other lives had promised, we found ourselves ritually checking the situations vacant section in the papers, surviving on baked beans on toast (not again!) and cheap, nasty booze (Tenant's super anyone?). Every now and then we'd make a concerted effort to save up as a group so that we could all go to the pub together and at least have a pint and a game or two of table football. It was at that time that BTR showed up on the scene, just at that poverty-stricken point, with his flash car, bursting wallet and cocky smile, and while I'm loathe to admit it I think perhaps I was more dazzled with the promise of a good life rather than our compatibility.

The night we kissed was heady and charged with electricity. There was a very real and physical attraction but with hindsight I think I had kind of fooled myself into believing that there was also a meeting of the minds, when in reality my grey matter remained grey and unstimulated.

There followed a relationship for eight passionate months, but this was not a good passion. Instead it was the same, tiring routine of arguments (him), flare ups because of bad days at work (him), moody sulks (him), apologies (me) and desperate attempts at reconciliation (me) and worst of all, violence aimed at inanimate objects (him).

Bassface and Marta sat me down one day for an unplanned chat;
"We need to talk" Marta told me sternly while hading me a steaming cup of tea

"PPQ, we're worried" Bassface joined in

"Yes, it's about BTR. He's not good enough and you need to re-consider your relationship with him," Marta added, no holds barred

"Mate, he's a great guy...when you're not around. But the moment you turn up, he turns into an arsehole, and he's rude and aggressive towards you, and, well, we just don't think that's right. Not for you." Bassface concluded, Marta nodding her agreement.

I was S-T-U-N-N-E-D. Bassface was so oblivious to even the biggest things, I used to joke that he wouldn't notice a turd floating in his pint if he was drinking it, and Marta, well, I knew she was honest and blunt (in a good way of course) but until this moment I hadn't realised how much she cared.

I went home, mind reeling and started to realise that they were right. I was so happy when BTR wasn't around, when it was me and the gang hanging out at the Temple, having a laugh, sharing our days' stories, giving affection and support. Knowing we had our futures ahead of us. But whenever he was around I shrank into the earth I stood on, I was worn and bullied.

The night he managed to put a 10inch crack in my reinforced fire-retardant bedroom door after a row, I decided I had enough.

The next day I took the coward's way out and called him on the phone, "BTR, We need to talk."

So I was a coward for using the phone, but at least I did it. I got out. And to this day I have no regrets. In fact, if anything, I know what I won't put up with anymore.