This weekend I was honoured to receive the most noble and prestigious of house guests; none other than Vino Squid, steely-handed matriarch of the dysfunctional Squid family and much-vaunted in many an Action Squid anecdote, reminiscence or paltry piecemeal parley. The sheets were clean, toilets bleached, Barbie securely manacled to a water pipe in the cupboard under the stairs (with a rag soaked in drain cleaner firmly reducing her capacity for inappropriate speech / breathing), and towels arranged by size in a neat stack on the end of her bed. A pity then that upon arrival her first intuition was to get 'utterly shitfaced'; leading to her, myself, Honksy and the malodorous Irish imposter briefly mentioned in previous letters into the back of a taxi in search of a local restaurant. I can't but help but think now that Honks and Irish had no idea what they were in for.
She is, after all, called Vino Squid for a reason.
This dim sense of foreboding was realised several hours and six or seven bottles of wine later, when I re-entered the living room to find my mother forcing assorted cooking utensils and kitchenware into the girls' hands (ladles, spatulas etc) in order to more 'realistically' sing the collected hits of Joan Armatrading, Elton John and Paul Simon at inordinately loud volumes for such an advanced hour of the evening....or early morning.
This though, was only the beginning.
Often in life there can be differing version of reality, dependent on the size and shape of the prism through which one wishes to view the facts. I sometimes think that it's a strange idiosyncrasy of the human experience; that truth can vary so distinctly in either the generosity or paucity of its telling. For example, if anyone at work tomorrow asks me how my Saturday was, I'll probably reel off the following prepared list with a glib sense of disinterest, or even apathy:
Facts
- Lunch at J Sheekey (I had the monkfish and tiger prawn curry, which was excellent)
- Shopping at Selfridge's
- A single slow revolution of the London Eye
- Dinner in Patara, Soho
- Noel Coward's 'Blithe Spirit' at the Apollo Theatre
Is this what really happened though? Well yes, technically. But this lean, lithe itinerary omits certain key elements that if not adding meat to these bones certainly give them a little colour. And it is in these nuances that any kind of story actually builds its humble nest:
Additional Notes
- I spent most of the lunch at J Sheekey trying to convince her not to steal or 'accidentally purloin' any of the menus, napkins, cutlery or silverware
- She successfully convinced me to spend the entire time in Selfridge's pretending to be her bodyguard - including having one of my headphones in and keeping my sunglasses on indoors - meaning I had to walk no closer than six feet behind her at all times and answer any sales assistant's pertinent enquiry about my behaviour with the disconcertingly obtuse: 'I'm afraid that's classified'
- Considering my irrational fear of heights (Party Squid will happily and enthusiastically testify to my 'condition' at the top of the Empire State Building), booking us onto The London Eye was probably a fool's errand, but for reasons too boring to transcribe here I was determined to go on. The ride itself was uneventful enough; but so harangued were we by a combination of the altitude, heat and a pair of champagne-gilded hangovers that when we both sat down on the grass opposite said infamous attraction to get our bearings....we both fell asleep. For over an hour. On the heaving South Bank. In the middle of the day. Between the second and third bases of quite a large game of rounders
- After that, dinner was a quiet affair. It felt more like breakfast, for one thing
- The show itself was excellent, but our attention to it was inevitably wrestled away by the bizarre and predatory intentions of the local bewildered nutter, who seems to attach herself to my mother at any available opportunity. In this particular instance, a brazen middle-aged divorcee from Dover whose sole role in life appeared to be cruising around the back rows of West End plays in search of men who were either too disenfranchised from their dignity to resist her violent sexual advances or similarly transfixed with similar violent sexual advances of their own. Either way, Vino Squid adeptly thrust her in the direction of an American tourist with a powerful moustache, who was either both of those things or neither, and we avoided her skilfully for the remainder of the evening
All in all though, a fun weekend. Today we had lunch before I saw her off to the station, over which we discussed celebrity. 'Forbes announced this week that Lady Gaga has become the most powerful celebrity in the world,' says I, making conversation.
'Rubbish,' replies mother. 'What do they know? Geoff Capes is old now I imagine but he'd still kick the shit out of that little harlot. Is your lamb alright? Mine looks like an advert for Canesten fucking Duo. Don't pull that face darling, look at it. I genuinely wonder if living in London has made you go soft. It's all the oestrogen in the bloody water mains...'
Soon after she sauntered off to Paddington, where she had a stand-up row with a fellow first-class passenger - disabled no less - who had the nerve to be in mother's seat. It was only when they compared tickets did she realise she was on the wrong train.
She asked after you, as always. I sent her your love, as always. Who knows, maybe you are actually sending it.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
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