ParanoidPromQueen

Blogger I married him

2008-08-10T22:45:00.006+01:00

That morning I opened my eyes and blinked furiously as I tried to get them to focus. As I stretched out for a morning hug, I realised that Bonobo wasn't actually there and reality came tumbling down happily around me. It was THE day, the big day. The wedding.

Before I had even managed to get my hair curled by the hairdresser, my trusty bridesmaids and I had narrowly averted several miniature catastrophes with seating plans and furniture. Yet I remained calm and in control much to the surprise of friends who thought that I would be running around in a panicked frenzy. I was determined to have a good day, come what may.

In typical PPQ style I was late to the Town Hall (under strict instructions of the registrar of course!), but mostly because troubleshooting the afore mentioned problems had meant that I had very little time to primp and preen myself, and instead found myself jumping in the shower and shaving my legs with only twenty minutes to spare.

As we stepped outside onto the cobble stones to make the thirty second walk from the hotel to the Town Hall, the sky looked grey and ominous, the temperature dropped dramatically and the rain came down. But even that didn't get me down as the chatty, young doorman from the hotel escorted me with a rainbow-coloured golf umbrella. After all, they say it's lucky if it rains on your wedding day.

And so the registrar greeted me with a huge smile. Reminded me of what was to come and then I took Big Brother Senior's arm and we walked down the aisle. The excitement that had been quietly fizzing in the pit of my stomach started to bubble away and I felt almost giddy. And there was Bonobo at the end of the aisle, dressed up to the nines and beaming away at me.

The readings were perfect, funny and sweet and full of love and affection. And the ceremony was lovely.

And then, we were husband and wife. Married. Me and my best friend, my soul mate, my confidante, my protector.

We had a fabulous party afterwards with mouth-watering food, heart-wrenching speeches and music courtesy of Bonobo's band. Being in a room packed with people we love was such an incredible feeling.

And despite the terrible weather and the little mishaps in the morning, I couldn't have asked for a more perfect wedding. Or a better husband.

2008-06-07T10:07:00.005+01:00

Maybe I wasn't quite ready for retirement.

Maybe I just needed a sabbatical.

This place needs a good spring clean and a fresh start...

PUBLIC NOTICE

2007-06-07T19:31:00.001+01:00

PPQ has gone into retirement...this blog is bust.

Please feel free to browse her archives (ooh-err!).

Thank you.

A place in the country

2007-03-03T11:41:00.000Z

Plans have been afoot for a few months now…Bonobo got himself a new job teaching at a school in Oxfordshire and we started talking about buying a place together.

I love London, I really do, but recently I have been noticing that I’m not myself anymore. That I’m stressed and exhausted and I’m not even excited by going out to the pub to meet my friends anymore. And most of all, I realise that I never have the time or the inclination to read books or write.

This, I decided, was a bad state of affairs so I had a chat with my boss, gave him three months notice (I was only contracted to give one) and we started house-hunting in Oxfordshire. It made sense as I has previously lived there for five years and had been to university there too.

After seeing some real rotters, we found a place that we fell in love with instantly….a wonky, little, Victorian worker’s cottage with an inglenook fireplace and a decent-sized garden.

Our offer was accepted and my three months notice finished and Bonobo and I moved into our Hobbit Cottage not so long ago.

I’m really enjoying living in the country, doing little bits here and there to make our house our own. And I’m really looking forward to growing some vegetables. But now I have the task of finding a job that I will enjoy.

Let’s see what happens…

Lost

2006-11-22T13:53:00.000Z

We spent hours listening to sad songs, pondering their meaning
Wondering if they ever found their happy endings
We were inseparable
Dependents
We gently manipulated each other
He didn’t like me spending time with other boys
I didn’t like him spending time with other girls
Perhaps we mistook our mutual love for something more than friendship
Perhaps we never should have tried to find out ‘what if?’
Some met him and thought him a bit feckless
Timid, quiet, what have you
But I saw his passionate nature
The fire in his eyes when he saw me
His devotion to me
The night he pushed me away so hard I crashed into his wardrobe door
The childhood friendship he sacrificed to win me back
But he ran when he got scared
And that wound he inflicted was slow to heal
But heal it did and in the end eros never had suited us - agape was the true love
I knew I would have been his friend till death did us part
But he walked away to another land
With a girl I could never like
And so he sacrificed another friendship on the altar to love
Changed his appearance, his smile, his beliefs
Moulded himself to fit her
From time to time I see a group e-mail telling of their visits to London
Would anyone like to meet up?
I make up my excuses
For I am weak
And I have no conceivable idea what we should talk about
And yet every now and then I still think of him
And I wonder if we’ll ever make another lasagne as we talked and laughed
And remembered what good friends we were

Soundtrack Beloved Wife – Natalie Merchant

ID

2006-10-31T14:16:00.000Z

Crisis of identity?

I know a thing or two on that subject matter.

Born in Brunei to Nepali parents, brought up in Hong Kong and England, appear asian but sound western. I often think of myself as an hybrid.

I’ve struggled long and hard with myself for a long time.

In the past, I’ve disliked myself more often than I’ve like myself, and on many a day I’ve felt like I just don’t fit in my skin, or my environment. On days like these I find myself wishing that I were more like one of my friends, with an assured idea of who they are and where they belong. But then I think, does anyone really ever feel like they fit in? Is there a PPQ-shaped hole somewhere in this universe that I would just slot into with a satisfying click?

It’s a tricky one.

But I am thirty now, and when I look back at my twenties, I realise things about myself that I never gave myself credit for back then.

I always put others before me.
I am loyal.
I am a procrastinator.
I am imperfect.
I am lovable.
I love.
I am intelligent.
I am eager to learn.
I can admit when I’m wrong.
I like knowing I’m right.
I want to make a difference to someone.
I am damn good at my job.
I want a new job.
It matters what other people think of me (even though it shouldn’t).

The more I live, the more time passes, the more I learn about myself. And these days I like myself as much as I dislike myself. There is more of a balance than there has ever been.

Maybe then there isn’t one PPQ-shaped hole in the world, maybe everywhere I go, I leave a bit of myself and I take a bit of that place with me and the shape of me changes to fit my environment.

Maybe that’s how I finally fit.

A personal evolution of sorts.

Soundtrack Pictures of Success – Rilo Kiley

Done and dusted

2006-10-02T10:43:00.000+01:00

I did it.

I did it!

Last week I handed in my notice and my last day working at A.N. Other Retail Ltd, where my life has been a living hell, will be the 15th December.

This means that Bonobo and I can buy a house in Oxford and grow some vegetables (amongst other things). I can leave the rat race at last, and learn how to relax these rigid elbows of mine (developed after 8 years of having to commute in this city - well you know what they say, if you can beat 'em, join 'em).

It's all so very exciting.

The scary thing is, I don't have a new job yet (Eep! This is not like me at all). But I have my fingers and toes crossed, and a few applicactions on the pipeline.

Just don't tell my Ma!

It's not a retrospective, it's a cop out!

2006-07-26T15:08:00.000+01:00

If someone had told me, back when I first started this blog, that nearly three years down the line, I would still be doing it and that I would meet my fiancé through it, I think I would have laughed.

It’s true that I don’t write regularly anymore. Mostly because of circumstance, but also because I wonder if it’s better to write infrequently of things that really matter, or more frequently about pap. The internal debate rages on and I find that my posts are still less prolific and still full of pap and less meaning. But I find myself wanting to write again. Properly.

But my plans are thwarted. Our home compooder broke.

So in the interim I’ve decided to post some links to my favourite pieces of PPQ. And by this, I mean the posts I enjoyed writing the most. You may not like them, you may think they’re overly sentimental or pointless.

But, maybe, just maybe, there may be one teeny thing that you like, or relate to.

I know it’s a cop out, that I should write some new stuff, but well, dem’s the blows.

That was then, this is now

Affinity

Not enough stars

Destiny

'Til tomorrow

Temple

Liar liar

Runaway

Whimsy

Senses

What ifs

Sinnerman

Blind date

Lost

Muse

The littlest things

Latitude

2006-07-14T10:05:00.000+01:00

I am so excited!

We have our tent, our camping chairs, our gas cooker, our bog roll, wellies, kagools....Bonobo and I are off to Latitude and it's my first time camping at a Festival! We are ready for any eventuality.

Don't worry though, I know what you're thinking...a ParanoidPromQueen like me can't slum it for a weekend...it's okay, I won a competition so we'll be in the VIP area! Huzzah!

Have great weekends y'all.

x

That was then, this is now

2006-07-05T23:12:00.000+01:00

I can't remember my reasons for turning down his offer of a date, but something just didn't feel right and so I'd offered him a friendship. He took it, and yeah okay I know, what good is a friendship to someone who wants to see if there's the chance to evolve? I offered anyway.

We'd had such a great night that I was a little giddy with the adrenaline of a n evening with someone you really click with. I was so pleased that he wanted to be friends. So pleased that he was okay with this.

And then he said it. He said these little words that seemed so huge they felt as though they were bearing down on my chest causing my breaths to shorten and my heart to quicken... "For God's sake PPQ you take my breath away."

And then the silence came thundering in.

In that instant all my resolve shattered into a million pieces with the rest of me and floated around in the balmy night sky. And when, a few moments later, I had managed to piece myself together again I relented and agreed to a date.

I remember thinking at the time, that no one had said something as beautiful to me, or taken their heart off their sleeve and handed it to me in their open palm like that. I remember thinking that those words were uttered just for me. That to him, I was special.

That was years ago.

These days I have the better sense to realise that it was a line and that I most probably didn't own the exclusivity on it. You see the delayed benefit of hindsight means that now I know what it is to be so special to someone else that they would never feed you lines, finally, now I recognise true words when they are spoken.

Songs of import: The Land of Make Believe

2006-06-23T13:43:00.000+01:00

It's funny how certain memories lodge themselves into the recesses of your mind leaving an indelible mark, a kind of memory tatoo. My brother's hate my long term memory because much to their chagrin, I am able to recount teasing and various incidents from our childhood, my short term memory however is no way near as good.

When I was 6 my father was posted back to Hong Kong after only a year in England and so like any Forces family, we followed him. My brother's were already at boarding school by this time but I had to face the prospect of starting a new school back in Hong Kong. I remember the anxiety...would the kids at Sek Kong Primary like me? Would I fit in, have the right clothes? Would I seem different to them because I had lived in England for a year?

And so the dawn of my first day at a new school arrived. Ma dropped me off at school - I was worried.

At break time I scanned the faces of the kids on the playground hoping that I might spot a familiar face - another kid who I knew whose Father might just have been posted to Hong Kong at the same time as mine. I reviewed my situation. I seemed to be alone, slightly away from the other crowds of kids and was beginning to wonder if I should just pluck up any courage I had, gather myself and go and talk to a crowd of girls from my class.

And then I saw her...skipping towards me as if out of nowhere.

"Hi PPQ, how was England?"

I was dumbstruck. I didn't know who this girl was but she was talking to me as if she knew me.

"What songs are out over there?" she asked as she grabbed my hand and started singing "Run for the sun Little one.."

That was all it took. I joined in singing along with a huge grin "it is time for you to change, time to change Superman"

Off we skipped. Me and my first new friend at my new school.

Her small gesture of kindness had made me better able to cope with my new school fears and I didn't have to spend my first day scared to bits. Instead, I looked forward to coming back to school and I quickly made friends.

If you asked me today, I wouldn't be able to recall her name. Pretty soon after we met, her Father was posted to another country and so she left. But these days, when I hear that song I'm reminded of the kindness of some strangers, and I'm filled with a teeny bit of courage and a big old smile.

Bad blogger

2006-06-22T23:47:00.000+01:00

You know you've been a bad blogger when you take a jaunt round blogsville to find that your name has disappeared from hallowed blogrolls and that some of your favourite bloggers have quit.

Tonight I am sending myself to my room without any tea or tv.

Bad me.

Hirsutes you Sir

2006-05-09T13:42:00.000+01:00

I’ve noticed a trend recently in the office.

It seems that a few of the male species at work are growing beards and while their efforts should be heartily congratulated, I have trouble trying to figure out why a man would go through the beard-growing process.

In my mind there are several cons and no pros…

- You get an itchy chin
- You end up looking like Jesus, Santa or the Twits
- You get food stuck in it
- Your good lady friends will get an unsightly (and uncomfortable) rash after kissing you
- In most cases, you look older

Now the guys in my office who are displaying their hirsute prowess on their faces have very fine beards that are well groomed and maintained. But I am now beginning to wonder if they will start to grow be-socked, be-sandaled feet as a side-effect.

More to the point, I think they looked better before - they looked approachable, and friendly and cute.

So, I have questions blogsville.
I mean, what is the need for beard?
Does every man go through it?
Is there a female equivalent of a man’s need to grow a beard?

Why in the name of Chewbacca would a decent looking fellow grow a rug on his face?

The lighthouse

2006-04-24T23:22:00.000+01:00

It’s strange this feeling of contentment.
Alien almost.
At first I wasn’t quite sure what to do with it and I found myself trying to tidy it away into a corner so that I wouldn’t have to deal with it. Yeah that’s it, I would think to myself, just pretend it’s not there, just like the pile of clothes at the foot of your bed crying out to be ironed.
That didn’t really work.
So I tried to counter it’s queer effect by picking little fights in some vain attempt to try and remember some wrangled state of emotion that I was used to, that I knew. I know complication and confusion very well. The darkness that creeps around.
But that didn’t work either.
And after a while I ran out of hare brained ideas and I just let it be.
These days I’ve come to like this happy heavy weight on my heart because I realise now that this weight is the knowledge that if there’s one thing I can rely on, it’s that you will always love me, and it makes my load that much lighter. And you know what? I can’t quite remember what I did without it.

Harumph!

2006-04-11T23:22:00.000+01:00

So I was rooting around the back of my dusty cupboards and in amongst the worn shoes, the too-small clothes (note to self - surrender the fantasy - you'll never be that thin again!), print outs of e-mails that mean a lot to me, CDs, books etc etc, glinting right there at the very back, I found my once beloved blog.

It was covered in dust and was looking a little forlorn and slightly dog-eared - not unlike a now neglected toy that had once been so loved, the favourite, one that I couldn't bear to part with.

I polished it up with a cloth and sighed as it regained its former sparkle. I'm going to look after this blog again, I thought to myself, breathe some life back into it.

And so I did.

And then work got in the way again.

*sigh*

And now I feel like a petulant child, because, it's not fair. I wanna play with my blog, write all these things that are crashing around in my head, longing for escape. I want I want I want!

*sigh*

Some day soon I'll restore this blog back to the way it was.

Until then...I'm clawing my way through the next two days and then I'm off to the seaside for some proper air. Maybe while I'm away I can re-evaluate my priorities (!).

In the meantime, say hullo to my imaginary dog-pet. Ain't he the cutest thing you ever saw?

Have a great Easter break Blogsville.

x

Last night I heard the screaming

2006-04-04T23:25:00.000+01:00

The doors slam so hard the vibrations can be felt humming through the walls in our place. I look up from what I’m doing, turn down the volume and sit still. I am alone in this beautiful, new flat.

And the screaming begins.

She shrieks so loudly that I can hear her word for perfect word, as I sit quietly,

“I FUCKING HATE YOU, EVERY FUCKING TIME, YOU PROMISE, AND EVERY FUCKING TIME YOU DO IT AGAIN, IF YOU DON’T LOVE ME ANYMORE THEN JUST FUCKING TELL ME, BUT DON’T PUT ME THROUGH THIS.”

I wonder if her breaking heart forces her to act like this, to lose her ability to rationalise and talk in a normal manner. She is so loud, that I can hear the strain, her voice breaking. Oh the pressure that must be mounting on her vocal chords.

I rarely hear him. And when I do, I have to strain to hear his words. But tonight he has had enough.

He shouts. Loudly.

“I’ve had a hard day at work, I’m hungry, I’m dehydrated. All I wanted to do was come home and relax. AND YOU JUST WON’T FUCKING LEAVE IT ALONE, WILL YOU? JUST FUCKING LEAVE ME ALONE.”

SLAM!

SLAM!

Two doors.

SLAM! And another

And then I hear the child, shrieking, crying, “Nooooooooooo. Nooooooo. Just stop it please.”

In that split moment in time, the blood has started to course through my veins, the adrenaline crashing around in my body, creating a thunderous noise in my ears. Oh God, there’s a kid. Fuck, what do I do now? Should I go round and ask if they’re okay? Should I call the police? What would I tell them? That my neighbours are arguing and the kid is upset but I didn’t hear anything that alluded to physical abuse. And what would happen if these neighbours found out I had called the police, and started a campaign of terror against me?

Oh come on. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t be thinking the very same cowardly things?

The child continues to wail, “No, just stop it, don’t upset everyone, pleeease.”

I think about how this poor child has no choice but to grow up having to hear this god-awful shouting night after night, the sound of two people falling out of love. What a black mark this must leave on their heart - no child deserves to grow up like this.

I don’t stop thinking about that child, and as I finally drift off into a fitful slumber, I promise myself that if I ever hear the sound of that child being physically hurt I will do my duty and call the police. Wouldn't you?

It's been so long...

2006-03-29T22:42:00.000+01:00

...that I'm not quite sure where to begin.

Perhaps I should try bullet points?

Since I last wrote I have;

Had 3 chest infections
Lived in a damp flat with a mould infestation
House hunted
Moved house
Put on weight
Worked like a demon
Laughed a lot
Started to like myself a little bit

Oh and most importantly...

I have got engaged!

Forgive me, it's going to take me a few practice runs before I get back into the swing of things again...writing lucid blogposts seems like something I learnt eons ago...I'm pretty sure it's something not unlike riding a bike...!

So, let me just share my state of chuffedness (okay so I've taken to making up words too)...Bonobo asked me to marry him and I said YES!

I'll leave it at that for now...

2005-12-05T21:59:00.000Z

So you trip along with your life feeling sorry for yourself because of this and because of that. You reach a point where you realise that people have their own lives, their own family/friends, their own worries, and that you can’t always be foremost in their thoughts. You begin to wallow in a pit of self-pity and sympathy because things aren’t how they used to be, things have changed and you wish damn hard that things could go back to the way they used to be. And then one day you hear of the bad fortune that met someone you know, you hear about the bad health of a relative, the demise of someone's love, the unbearable sadness that follows your friend. And these cold hard realities smack you in the face and you wonder when you became so selfish. Is this self-involvement part of your character or is it an innate trait shared by all humans?

So what of the future?

2005-11-18T21:34:00.000Z

If someone could look into the future, would you ask them what it held for you?

Address me by my true name

2005-11-14T22:39:00.000Z

‘Would you like a cup of tea Bonobo?’ I enquired sweetly.

Nothing, nada, zip.

‘Bonobo…?’

Still nothing.

‘Bonobo, wo hoo…can you hear me?’

More silence, he carried on with whatever it was he was doing.

This was a little disconcerting. Had I upset him in the last five minutes and caused him to fly into a silent huff? Had he suddenly lost all of his faculties. Been struck with deafness?

I looked at Red who looked as though she was going to burst out laughing.

‘He won’t answer you,’ she said quite merrily. ‘He won’t answer you unless you refer to him by his new, ahem, I mean real name.’

‘And what, pray tell is his real name?’ I asked patiently.

‘Bob Melon,’ she said.

Oh. Of course, how silly of me to forget.

‘Ahem, Bob Melon, would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Well that would be super PPQ, thank you so much.’

This place is turning into a nuthouse.

Slap in the face and a kick up the arse

2005-11-08T22:51:00.000Z

I've been blogging for two years now.

That's a long time.

I remember the utter excitement I felt when I got my very first genuine comment from someone other than Bubs and the Boy. I remember the euphoria of finding my name on someone else's blogroll.

It's been a real journey for me and I've enjoyed it thoroughly.

But in the last six months I've struggled to find decent material to blog about. At times I've even considered giving it up.

Recently as I've been wandering round Blogsville checking up on my old favourites I started to notice that my name had begun to disappear from blogrolls and I felt a tug at my heart and my pride. I realised that I miss visting other bloggers and reading what they have to say, and that for me the blogging game is not quite over. I'm not ready to give that all up just yet...I'm turning a new blogleaf...

What ifs

2005-10-25T01:38:00.000+01:00

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.

Ostrich

2005-10-23T02:03:00.000+01:00

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!

Every time we say goodbye

2005-10-10T23:13:00.000+01:00

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.

Interlude

2005-10-05T00:11:00.000+01:00

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?