Dear Octopus,
If I was hanging on Tuesday, today I'm well and truly hanged. I tagged along with a few of my old press buyer buddies after the buyers' Christmas party, and come 11pm I was knee-deep in a state of drunken melancholy and all-encompassing self-loathing only previously seen in the aftermath of the 'incident' last summer, which as you know was unpleasant to say the least. If you'd chosen to follow Action Squid on Twitter (@actionsquid) you would have seen this grim operatic meltdown melting down in 'real time', but suffice it to say that you haven't, so you didn't.
After vomiting in the shower this morning I genuinely thought the worst was over. Little did I know that my arrival at work would be celebrated by Simon telling an extended anecdote of how not only has his neighbour's sewage pipe been overflowing into his garden, but his spaniel Rufus has now started deliberately consuming the worrying daily repast of his own vomit, after having consumed said overflowing faeces and finding it so delicious he obviously wanted to consume it twice. My emergency-hangover Pret A Manger croissant remained untouched until 11.30am.
The day has actually yielded little improvement since. We had a discussion about what song you'd like played at your funeral (mine: 'Nobody Does It Better' by Carly Simon), and we're now preparing to go to the Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park. The thought of rollercoasters makes my stomach twist itself into the grim intestinal phrase 'SURRENDER ACTION SQUID, OR DIE BY STOMACH DEATH.' Shan is going to teach me to ice skate though, so that'll be fun.
Had a blazing row with Catfish last night, in the middle of the street. You wouldn't like her.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
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