Even after five years he managed to take my breath away.

To be honest I hadn’t even entertained the possibility that he might be there because I’d spent so long trying to forget him.

CT and I turned up at the party knowing hardly anyone, we’d decided we’d show up, drink to the bride and groom and then get the last train home back to Oxford. Thankfully we had each other because when we walked in we realised very quickly, much to our chagrin, that everyone there except us had been to the service and to the afternoon reception and were all pretty much blotto already.

We were the only two who hadn’t been invited to earlier proceedings and we were stone cold sober. So I did what I always seem to do in a nerve-wracking situation such as this and I employed dutch courage. That is to say I drank way too much way too fast.

Juggling two full drinks and teetering on my impossibly high heels I negotiated my way through a crowd of post-wedding euphoric people, trying to find CT without tripping up spectacularly. I was concentrating so hard that I almost didn’t recognise him.

“Heeeeey,” he greeted me with that devastating smile of his. God, was it possible that my imagination hadn’t warped just how gorgeous he was? Was it possible that those dark brown eyes were the same eyes I used to look into wistfully, hoping with all hope that something could come of our friendship? He excused himself from the people he had been talking to and looked at me for some sort of a response. I must have looked like a rabbit in the headlights. I couldn’t find breath in my body let alone words.

“You don’t recognise me do you?” he asked, smiling still, the teeny laughter lines at the corners of his eyes creasing. Recognise him? Christ I dreamt of this man every night for months after I first met him. I would recognise him if I were blind folded and spun round in a hundred tiny circles. How could I not recognise him?

“Uh, yes, yes of course I do,” I managed, “Hi Dan, how are things?” I gibbered. It was so hard to talk straight with all the alcohol crashing around my body, firing all the synapses in my brain. So hard looking at him standing in front of me in his suit with those eyes, those eyes that used to look into mine as if no one else was in the room.

“God, it’s so good to see you PPQ, after all these years. I didn’t think I’d see you again. And you look great by the way.”

And so we chatted. I looked across at CT who nodded that it was okay for me to leave her on her own for a while longer, and Dan and I caught up the last five years in about five minutes. That was always the way with him, I could bare my soul and we could talk deep and meaningful, never feeling even a smidge uncomfortable, and right at the other end of the spectrum we could talk absolute bollocks and laugh the night away. I was only 17 and still at school, he was a few years older working as a designer and our seeing each other relied on mutual friends arranging nights out. Somehow, something always seemed to get in the way of us ever evolving.

As we stood there talking, drinking in each other’s company I found myself wondering what if? What if things had been different? What if we’d managed to work things out? What would things be like now?

“You know what? I had the biggest crush on you back then. I fancied you rotten.” Caught up in all this whimsy and soaked in alcohol, my brain functions weren’t quite working and I realised with horror that I had just said those unthinkable things out aloud.

“You did?” he countered. God, this is excruciating - mental note to self, never, ever drink alcohol unsupervised, ever again. I was preparing to walk away gracefully, using CT as an excuse.

“But, um, well. You really fancied me?” he asked, seemingly genuine. I nodded. “Christ, why didn’t you ever tell me?”

And you know what? I couldn’t answer him because I don’t know why I didn’t tell him. I was young, I was naïve. I was scared, and lacked confidence, I didn't know how he felt. I hadn’t lived yet, I didn’t know about the way what ifs can trash your life and leave you traumatised. Back then those were lessons I had yet to learn.

“God I wish you’d told me,” he said as he looked right into my eyes. And in that one look I saw hope and real regret and something else that I could never quite put my finger on that made me shiver inside and wish to God things had been different.

Of course, it may have just been the hazy effects of the alcohol (and Lord knows I paid for my abuse), but that one moment in time, that realisation that things could have been different if I’d only done something has fuelled me ever since. To avoid what ifs at all costs.

Better to scare yourself a little than to spend your life regretting.

I was going to do it, really I was.

I was on the tube coming home and I thought, I’ll just get in, dump off my bags, have a quick wee and a cuppa tea and then I’ll go upstairs and do it.

I mean, I’d even kept my boots on and that surely is a sign?

But the more I tried to pull myself together and will myself to get up and go out again, the harder it became. The more I practised exactly what I was going to say and the polite (and slightly apologetic) tone, the easier it became to sink further into the sofa, snuggle under the throw and get comfy in front of the TV.

Of course I know it would be much better for my health in the long run if I had just gone and got it over with and I know that five minutes of slight discomfort would be a lot better than the countless nights in bed, blood boiling and rage bubbling. But the thing is, I hate confrontation. Hate it with a capital H-A-T-E.

So now I guess I’ll just have to put up with the fact that my upstairs neighbours like to do their laundry until 1.30am and that the washing machine is directly above my bedroom. That at night when my eyes are squeezed shut and I’m desperately trying to get to sleep and their machine is going through spin cycle, my fitted wardrobes shake like thunder and it sounds as if the damn machine is sitting right on my head.

I guess that's it then.

Goddamn that ostrich head of mine!

I love Sundays because they are lazy and cosy and I get to spend them with you. Sometimes we mooch around the house in our pajamas, reading papers, watching DVDs, munching on comfort food, snuggling up against each other. And sometimes we throw on our clothes and set off on a little adventure, discovering new sights and sounds and tastes.

But God how I also hate Sundays.

And I hate them because every Sunday we have to leave each other. Every Sunday it feels as though wicked Time has played a cruel joke on us by fast forwarding our weekend together so that it all seems like a blur. That it’s all come to end way too quickly.

When it’s all over we cling to each other bidding our goodbyes, all hugs and kisses. I feel a gentle tugging at my heart as if a million tiny butterflies have placed a million tiny hooks inside me as they flutter about carelessly. Yes, I feel that wrench, but I also notice that I have an overwhelming sense of calm, because in five days time we will be together again. Because no matter how many times you may have to leave me, I always know that no matter what, you will always come back.

I started to panic recently that maybe I can only write about the bad things in life.

In truth, I probably wouldn’t have ever even thought about it had it not been for Boy, but, well, after nearly 5 years of friendship, he has this annoying way of voicing what I mainly like to keep loosely buried in amongst all the dusty filing in my mind, most probably somewhere between R for random thoughts and U for utter crap.

I think like a lot of bloggers I write my best stuff when the subject matter is dark and angst ridden (and I also notice that well written posts about sad stuff seem to attract more comments from blog readers than well written posts about happy stuff – think of this what you will). I find that my ability to articulate about heartache and despair is so much bigger, so much better than my ability to articulate about the good, the light and the beautiful.

Maybe that’s because I see my writing as some form of therapy. From the paper journals I kept as a young girl right the way through to this blog – I only ever seemed to find the need to write about things when they were bothering me.

Then again, maybe it’s because I haven’t really tried to write about the happy stuff.

Well maybe it’s time I did eh?