Dear Octopus,
Barbie is moving out. We are all decidedly sad at losing her ludicrously complex love life, the equally demonstrative screaming with which every incident of her life - no matter how large or small - is declared, and of course the fact the fact that she hasn't cooked a single meal in over six months of residence. Her tenure has been memorable though, and we watch her leave with heavy hearts.
Daunting then is the search for a worthy replacement. Given that preparation is the precursor to metropolitan if not divine providence, I wanted to start by drawing up a list of preferred attributes in prospective new inmates of our strange and ignoble residence. What Honks would most want, and Pongo, and I, to see where interesting corollaries might run parallel, if not actually intersect. But said document has, dans ecriver, somehow mutated from the idylls of perfection for prospective housemates into the more general requirements for 'the perfect person' (ie: romantically....chronically and hideously single as we all are).
As follows:
Pongo
A Spanish exchange student, 24-26, passing through London in pursuit of education: both academic and 'miscellaneous', which to me is disconcertingly sinister. Possibly a part time dancer (but not stripper), enjoys politics (but not a 'champagne socialist'), technology (but doesn't have a more competitive monthly phone plan), Formula One (but McLaren rather than Red Bull) and a strong regard for, if not training in, public school, barracks-style lavatorial humour. Devious, sultry, unattainable and utterly beguiling.....but more than prepared to cook us a three course Mediterranean dinner and then wash up to BBC Radio Four.
Looks like: Penelope Cruz in Nine
Honks
A laconic, pretty, waifish nancy boy. A cross between Mr. Darcy and Pete Doherty. Repressed and yet lyrical, with borderline personality disorder and dubious personal hygiene. Very tall, very artsy, very intellectual, sad eyes hinting a deep reservoir of unspeakable melancholy (although I may have just stolen that metaphor from High Fidelity). Rebellious / idealistic / stupid enough to smoke rolled up cigarettes and abhor all forms of necessary commercial enterprise, but conformist / lazy / hypocritcal enough to shop at Waitrose and wear ripped jeans ripped deliberately in their Eastern manufacture. A fop, a libertine, an anachronistic half-punk, half-Byronic anti-hero.
Looks like: Aidan Turner in Being Human
Me
A humdinger of a pickle. Well....funny, for one thing. And pretty, obviously. Good eyes and a good smile and fiery, so that she's attractive when she's in a mardy strop (which if she's going out with me she'll be in a lot). A sound knowledge of European literature 1580-1965 is essential, with particular emphasis on 1900-1925. Ideally also a lover of: films, Borough Market (and its wondrous salted caramel / pistachio ice creams), musical theatre, lying to strangers, impulsive travel, inventing indoor house games and of course Tottenham Hotspur. Being adept at handling the eclectic aquarium that is the Squid family would also be a bonus. Someone who can tell me to shut up when I can't, but will make me speak when I won't. Loyal, caring, endlessly sweet, and capable of winning an 'ugly-face-pulling competition' over dinner in an expensive restaurant. In short: someone nice.
Looks like: Mary Elizabeth Winstead in Scott Pilgrim vs The World
The downside of course to all this posturing is that no-one will ever be capable of actually fulfilling all of these way-too-specific criteria.
Probably why we're all still single.
Still....at least we have each other.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
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