Dear Octopus,
At the ferociously busy intersection of Shaftesbury Avenue, St Giles High Street, High Holborn and Endell Street is a gaudy orange, green, red and yellow building visible from many a stone's throw. On the seventh floor of this super-sleek, Renzo Piano-designed behemoth, my new desk looks out over a veritable metropolitan vista; thriving with commerce, cockroach-like simpletons scurrying along in their meaningless lives, and of course the high, regal architecture of our nation's capital. Well, the British Museum and BT Tower. (Actually feel somewhat aggrieved that those facing south, by contrast, have the London Eye and Houses of Parliament.)
Becca and I went for a burrito at lunch and meditated sagely on the notion of ownership, and the sense of belonging that comes with working in an area for nearly four years. The Strand was our home. Yes it was dirty, and busy, and often busy with dirty students protesting inanely about concepts they aren't intelligent enough to understand. But it was our home. What can Covent Garden bring for us? Not much, by the current feel of things, even if there are thousands of interesting shops, and bars, and theatres, and restaurants. Everything is new, and alien, and difficult to navigate.
After new burritos from a new burrito emporium (more expensive than our beloved Mas Burrito, not enough chipotle salsa compared to our lovely old Benito's Hat), we stood in the doorway of a guitar shop to hide from the rain, while I smoked a cigarette. A row of fearsome Les Paul imitations glared back at us, as if to sing in harmonious unison, 'who the fuck are you two? This is our town. You don't belong here. The streets here are reserved for the brave and the righteous. You bring no credentials. So you have no pedigree. Pick up your tatty satchels and fuck off.'
Becca and I looked at each other, and gulped.
This new manor might be tough.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
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