Dear Octopus,
When I was maybe seven or eight years old, our parents decided to sell our house. Good financial sense etc. On coming home from school I noticed the 'for sale' sign on a wooden pole standing forlornly outside, and on hearing from my mother what it was - and more importantly what it signified - I ran down the driveway, tore it from the ground and stamped it into a rather shabby and unwholesome condition, crying extensively. I don't know how your parents would have reacted to such a beastly display of selfishness and vanity, my dear Octopus, but mine just lead me back inside, and the next day my father quietly took the house off the market. Crazy really. I think of it sometimes even now, and cannot fail to reconcile these circumstances as anything but the best and most loving gesture anyone I know has ever made.
It was a penitent man then who returned to Devon on Friday night to help my parents move out, this time for good. For all twenty-six years of my life they have lived there, and endowed now as I am with some meagre semblances of rationality, there were to be no similar outbursts of sentimentalism or hurt. I did however expect a solemn and nostalgic process; poring morosely over old memories and packing them away....filing our childhoods and boxing up youth with a funereal reverence.
Not so. If anything yesterday was a cross between the opening scene from Home Alone and an ordinary day's work at Stalag Luft III.....with my older brother Party Squid screaming viciously in all of our faces to 'either work harder or curl up and fucking die....because houses don't fucking move themselves. If I come downstairs and find you without something in your hands I'm going to fucking remove them and then make you fucking carry them too.' So much for Railway-Children-style poignancy.
Essentially moving house is the same set of actions repeated over and over until you either die of exhaustion or from one of Party Squid's stinging verbal lobotomies. You go upstairs, pick up a box, take it downstairs, put it in the van (repeat x 20), drive to new house, take out box, take it upstairs, come back down again (repeat x20), then repeat the whole process ALL DAY. To say it was gruelling was an insult to other supposedly gruelling experiences. My left knee and right shoulder submitted their letters of resignation at about lunchtime, asking for an immediate transfer to a body more likely to spend its weekend relaxing in a Tuscan piazza with a nice beer and an expatriate edition of that week's Economist. I told them both that they were soon to be fired by Party Squid anyway, and in fact all of my mutinous joints, organs, cartilages and muscles were to be sold for kebab meat and shoe leather. So their current discontent was largely irrelevant.
The other thing I realised was how much utter crap we had. There were tennis racquets, fencing sabres, hockey sticks, pleated floral print skirts, blenders, juicers, remote controls to television sets long since descended to the pale fires of electrical hell, board games, action figures, family photo albums (for which I have a previously unconfessed love), scrapbooks, stamp collections, clothes, shoes, paint cans, stepladders and more than one bin bag full of cuddly toys (in one I fortuitously found Dogger; my best friend before I could say or spell best friend. I managed to smuggle him into my backback, having happily discovered that our separation of twenty or so years had not emotionally estranged us at all, and I was sure - if pressed - he would prefer residence in drab London to my parents' drabber new attic). It wasn't long before everything lost all meaning. By mid-afternoon my father discovered a mini-power drill in the depths of garage-junk and commented sagely, 'I've no fucking idea what this or what it does but it looks expensive, so pack it in with the others...'
I repeat: GRUELLING.
By evening we were all utterly shattered. The house in which we boys had been raised was more or less empty. It was such a lovely evening though that the five of us drifted into the garden and started laughingly reminiscing; the hideous gravestone Inky Squid made in his Design & Technology class for his dead hamster, Party Squid concentrating so hard on emulating Marc Overmars's dribbling technique that he ran into the side of the house and broke his collarbone, summer waterfights, drunken misadventure, family barbecues, a whole handful of summers with a handful of girlfriends all now long since departed....and of course the games of football. I smile at the thought even now, as I type. Since I can ever, ever, ever, ever remember: the same teams at the same ends (my father and younger brother playing from the back hedge, versus my older brother and I playing from the house), the same chairs for goalposts, the same furious arguments over disallowed goals and dubious penalties, the same agitated mother adjudicating from the sidelines. The same, our whole lives, since forever.
Before we knew it we were playing. And that's where I'll leave this story if I may; with my father shouting 'shooooot' in the way that only we do, my older brother still failing in his Overmars dribbling up the right wing, and our collective cheers, jeers and laughing echoing off into the past. You don't need to hear of empty rooms, or fingernails prying keys from their insolent rings. We played football in our garden for the last time, in the peachy and rose sunset. And that was that.
It's sad to lose the only house you've ever known; to where you would always instinctively fly if the world took a sour turn, and you were hurting. But it was wonderful to be there and preside over just a few of the shallow handful of memories of its great times, with those that made it so. Everything in me that is good, comes from them. As the car rolled down that long, infuriatingly potholed drive, I looked back over my shoulder for the last time, at all that once was. This time the 'for sale' sign stood unmolested.
In the car to the station I said to Inky Squid, 'you don't seem sad mate, and I thought you'd be the worst. It's been everything to us, our whole lives. Aren't you going to miss it?'
He shrugged, in his apathetic way. 'I wasn't there for the bricks and fucking light fittings mate.'
'You fucking dick,' I laughed, and looked out the window for a while. There was something in my eye which was totally inconvenient for me.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Sunday, 26 June 2011
Thursday, 23 June 2011
(For You, Wherever You Are)
Dear Octopus,
I worry sometimes about the selfish self-indulgence of these your letters; geared as they are to the garish, impudent machinations of this idealistic mind, lost in the ocean, and drunk on the transient myth of its own importance. They are stupid, really. I know.
Being stupid isn't great, clearly, but what's worse is knowing that your whole life is just unfolding in some not-too-distant corner of this our eternal city, where I cannot see, and all I know of its tribulations is what I might hear from the others. I never seem to ask how you are; inquire after your sister or parents, nor your job, flat, bills or prospects. It is a callow man who cares only for himself. I am not so Octopus. At least not yet. In truth, I do not ask only because I know you cannot reply. You are gone: sold to some vile potentate controlling with relish his grim corner of the violet deep, to cultures and climes in which I cannot know you, only to dream of what might have transpired had not the righteous truth finally demanded payment for the debt to which it was long owed.
So for you, wherever you are: you are my best friend, and all that is good in what is left. The longer I live in this city the more I see that love is dead; so just know that I miss you, and think of you always.
Tomorrow I go home for the last time. Be with me, Octopus. Lord knows I need you now.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
I worry sometimes about the selfish self-indulgence of these your letters; geared as they are to the garish, impudent machinations of this idealistic mind, lost in the ocean, and drunk on the transient myth of its own importance. They are stupid, really. I know.
Being stupid isn't great, clearly, but what's worse is knowing that your whole life is just unfolding in some not-too-distant corner of this our eternal city, where I cannot see, and all I know of its tribulations is what I might hear from the others. I never seem to ask how you are; inquire after your sister or parents, nor your job, flat, bills or prospects. It is a callow man who cares only for himself. I am not so Octopus. At least not yet. In truth, I do not ask only because I know you cannot reply. You are gone: sold to some vile potentate controlling with relish his grim corner of the violet deep, to cultures and climes in which I cannot know you, only to dream of what might have transpired had not the righteous truth finally demanded payment for the debt to which it was long owed.
So for you, wherever you are: you are my best friend, and all that is good in what is left. The longer I live in this city the more I see that love is dead; so just know that I miss you, and think of you always.
Tomorrow I go home for the last time. Be with me, Octopus. Lord knows I need you now.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Tuesday, 21 June 2011
Navel-Gazing For The Disenfranchised Man-Boy
Dear Octopus,
Last night Pongo and I watched a suitably high-brow BBC2 documentary about the development and future of British manufacturing industries and their affect on economic recovery. (Needless to say Honksy and Dutch skulked off to their rooms mere minutes in....further evidence of Woman's surprising ability to take no real interest in even a modicum of intellectual endeavour....) Part of this rigorous examination of British mercantile expansion included the strangely charismatic and yet mediaeval-looking Evan Davis flying in a Typhoon jet. I recalled to Pongo that flying fighter planes, admittedly over Nazi Germany, had long been a dream of mine as a very junior Action Squidlet, a revelation prompting an extensive and expansive discourse on childhood employment dreams of yesteryear.
The standard / generic dream jobs on any self-respecting boy's list are of course; spy, cowboy, racing driver, soldier, astronaut. The big five. Das grosse funf, if you will. Probably all linked by a boy's desire for danger, and therefore bravery in the face of it. And while these were all the permanent idylls of a happy youth, they weren't - with the exception perhaps of the soldier - ever actually achievable. Could never have been a cowboy; there's no real need for them in Devon (the cows are so inherently slothful that they don't need marshalling....if anything they need more in the way of mental stimulation). Only four Britons have ever been in space. Even now I can barely afford shoes, let alone afford a go-kart as a child. It's okay: dreams aren't realistic, after all. That's why they're only dreams.
We reassure ourselves with that. It's not technically true.
One becomes accustomed to the minor (and occasionally) major scrapes, knocks and bruises to their self-esteem naturally acquired along the way, and in doing so build their plasters, bandages and gauze from easy alibis for apathy, and conformity. The sad fact is that I probably could have been anything really, if I'd wanted it enough. 'I should have been a doctor, but it was too hard. I should have been a soldier, but I was too scared.' And therein lies the answer. Maybe we avoid actively pursuing our aspirations because trying is just not worth the risk of failure. There would be nowhere else to go.
I've realised now that this is wrong. Really wrong. It's cowardly to not fight, and work, and take risks for what you really want. After all: 'a real loser is someone who's so afraid of not winning that they don't even try.'
In short: I'm going to try and get my book published. That was my dream.
I hope if I'm ever lucky enough to have children I instil in them the value of having facetious, irrational and unattainable desires for later life. Living a life of failed dreams must be hard, but surely dying a death without having tried to achieve them must be harder.
If all else goes sideways maybe I'll just invent sudoku for the bovine market, and blame Evan Davis. Although I genuinely think it could be massive in Japan.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Last night Pongo and I watched a suitably high-brow BBC2 documentary about the development and future of British manufacturing industries and their affect on economic recovery. (Needless to say Honksy and Dutch skulked off to their rooms mere minutes in....further evidence of Woman's surprising ability to take no real interest in even a modicum of intellectual endeavour....) Part of this rigorous examination of British mercantile expansion included the strangely charismatic and yet mediaeval-looking Evan Davis flying in a Typhoon jet. I recalled to Pongo that flying fighter planes, admittedly over Nazi Germany, had long been a dream of mine as a very junior Action Squidlet, a revelation prompting an extensive and expansive discourse on childhood employment dreams of yesteryear.
The standard / generic dream jobs on any self-respecting boy's list are of course; spy, cowboy, racing driver, soldier, astronaut. The big five. Das grosse funf, if you will. Probably all linked by a boy's desire for danger, and therefore bravery in the face of it. And while these were all the permanent idylls of a happy youth, they weren't - with the exception perhaps of the soldier - ever actually achievable. Could never have been a cowboy; there's no real need for them in Devon (the cows are so inherently slothful that they don't need marshalling....if anything they need more in the way of mental stimulation). Only four Britons have ever been in space. Even now I can barely afford shoes, let alone afford a go-kart as a child. It's okay: dreams aren't realistic, after all. That's why they're only dreams.
We reassure ourselves with that. It's not technically true.
One becomes accustomed to the minor (and occasionally) major scrapes, knocks and bruises to their self-esteem naturally acquired along the way, and in doing so build their plasters, bandages and gauze from easy alibis for apathy, and conformity. The sad fact is that I probably could have been anything really, if I'd wanted it enough. 'I should have been a doctor, but it was too hard. I should have been a soldier, but I was too scared.' And therein lies the answer. Maybe we avoid actively pursuing our aspirations because trying is just not worth the risk of failure. There would be nowhere else to go.
I've realised now that this is wrong. Really wrong. It's cowardly to not fight, and work, and take risks for what you really want. After all: 'a real loser is someone who's so afraid of not winning that they don't even try.'
In short: I'm going to try and get my book published. That was my dream.
I hope if I'm ever lucky enough to have children I instil in them the value of having facetious, irrational and unattainable desires for later life. Living a life of failed dreams must be hard, but surely dying a death without having tried to achieve them must be harder.
If all else goes sideways maybe I'll just invent sudoku for the bovine market, and blame Evan Davis. Although I genuinely think it could be massive in Japan.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Wednesday, 15 June 2011
On Love
Dear Octopus,
Due to a raft of legal writs, subpoenas and summons bestowed on me by the governing bodies omnisciently regulating the morally ambiguous aquarium of London's advertising industry, it's been some time since my legal team have allowed me to write on the subject of work. But imminent departmental circumstances compel me to say a few words on the subject of love, for those who are forced to suffer me.
Firstly, it would be hideously remiss of anyone lucky enough to know him not to comment on the skills, temperament and general-good sense of my dear Jeremy, in whose company I have spent many a tube ride discussing company politics, football, the changing fortunes of FTSE 100 companies and of course the heavenly balsamic vinegar of which he is sole and (rightfully) proud custodian. Sometimes I actually awake at crude hours of the night and am unable to return to sleep, having dreamed so extensively of its qualities. A patient tutor, great mind, superb dinner host, and truest of gentleman.
Speaking of tutelage, things may easily have not transpired as they have (ie: with me still technically alive) had it not been for the steady hand and honest eye of my line manager Shan. Had I been left to my own devices during 'the dark week' prior to my recent visit to Devon, I would now be lying dead in a shallow ditch at the side of the motorway; probably in possession of an empty bottle of cheap supermarket scotch, two hundred Valium and no money. She saved me from ruin at the hands of the media beast, and for that I am eternally grateful.
Most valued perhaps to the team is Simon, whose fortitude, modesty, wit, honesty, intelligence and - above all - goodness pervade all things, immeasurably for the better. I have no greater respect for a colleague, nor aspire to any higher station.
(My praise is brief, having no greater or more genuinely-meant superlatives.)
Finally though, I am forced to begrudgingly admit that the most deserving recipient of muted affections is of course Clare. Unlike the others however, this thanks comes not for the notable qualities by whose influence I have been lovingly kept from trouble, but rather for her constant, saint-like tolerance of my shameful whims, idiosyncrasies and foibles. If I were her, I would have punched me in the face some time ago, and been removed from the building with a smile. It is now only with a mournful sigh that she agrees to 'Phil Collins Fridays,' 'Michael Jackson Mondays' or 'Wet Wet Wednesdays', in each of which extensive back catalogues of the appropriate artists are sung (by me) at audible enough volumes to render all work poisoned by the toxic waste that is my grasp for melody. And on top of that horrid, horrid misery (and this is only one of maybe sixty or seventy ways in which my daily behaviour must invariably crush her spirit)....she's possibly the funniest, cheeriest person I know.
I am undeserving.
You may garner from a tone perhaps especially-loquacious that things in this murky corner of the great and mystifying deep are actually on the up. This Squid retires to his corner of the sea tonight quite happy, and expectant of a day tomorrow in which the improvement of fortunes will now be probable, rather than a vague and unlikely dream.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Due to a raft of legal writs, subpoenas and summons bestowed on me by the governing bodies omnisciently regulating the morally ambiguous aquarium of London's advertising industry, it's been some time since my legal team have allowed me to write on the subject of work. But imminent departmental circumstances compel me to say a few words on the subject of love, for those who are forced to suffer me.
Firstly, it would be hideously remiss of anyone lucky enough to know him not to comment on the skills, temperament and general-good sense of my dear Jeremy, in whose company I have spent many a tube ride discussing company politics, football, the changing fortunes of FTSE 100 companies and of course the heavenly balsamic vinegar of which he is sole and (rightfully) proud custodian. Sometimes I actually awake at crude hours of the night and am unable to return to sleep, having dreamed so extensively of its qualities. A patient tutor, great mind, superb dinner host, and truest of gentleman.
Speaking of tutelage, things may easily have not transpired as they have (ie: with me still technically alive) had it not been for the steady hand and honest eye of my line manager Shan. Had I been left to my own devices during 'the dark week' prior to my recent visit to Devon, I would now be lying dead in a shallow ditch at the side of the motorway; probably in possession of an empty bottle of cheap supermarket scotch, two hundred Valium and no money. She saved me from ruin at the hands of the media beast, and for that I am eternally grateful.
Most valued perhaps to the team is Simon, whose fortitude, modesty, wit, honesty, intelligence and - above all - goodness pervade all things, immeasurably for the better. I have no greater respect for a colleague, nor aspire to any higher station.
(My praise is brief, having no greater or more genuinely-meant superlatives.)
Finally though, I am forced to begrudgingly admit that the most deserving recipient of muted affections is of course Clare. Unlike the others however, this thanks comes not for the notable qualities by whose influence I have been lovingly kept from trouble, but rather for her constant, saint-like tolerance of my shameful whims, idiosyncrasies and foibles. If I were her, I would have punched me in the face some time ago, and been removed from the building with a smile. It is now only with a mournful sigh that she agrees to 'Phil Collins Fridays,' 'Michael Jackson Mondays' or 'Wet Wet Wednesdays', in each of which extensive back catalogues of the appropriate artists are sung (by me) at audible enough volumes to render all work poisoned by the toxic waste that is my grasp for melody. And on top of that horrid, horrid misery (and this is only one of maybe sixty or seventy ways in which my daily behaviour must invariably crush her spirit)....she's possibly the funniest, cheeriest person I know.
I am undeserving.
You may garner from a tone perhaps especially-loquacious that things in this murky corner of the great and mystifying deep are actually on the up. This Squid retires to his corner of the sea tonight quite happy, and expectant of a day tomorrow in which the improvement of fortunes will now be probable, rather than a vague and unlikely dream.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Wednesday, 8 June 2011
On Graffiti
Dear Octopus,
This evening I sent the following email to the manager of a local bar recently (and fleetingly) visited.
As follows:
Dear Sir or Madam,
A few weeks ago my wife and I frequented your bar on our way to a plumbing and tiling exhibition in Margate ('Plumbing and Tiling And Its Effect On Agrarian Reform 1832-1879' if you're interested, in fact the keynote speaker was the brother-in-law of singer Joan Armatrading). We've passed your establishment many times - not just on our way to these sorts of cultural exhibitions I might add - and have always considered it a charming little venue, a preconception further ratified by our friend Ndegwa, who before he was deported always spoke very highly of its rum punch.
Due to be it being 'happy hour' we purchased four cocktails, and settled in for some relaxing leisure-time.
(Before you ask: no, we were not drink-driving. Due to a violent abhorrence of the automotive industry's recent trading activities in the Far East my wife will only travel by public transport.)
Everything was going smoothly until I noticed some writing scrawled on the wall by my head. As you will see from the attached photograph, someone has written 'I LOVE COCK (TAILS)' on the wall of your bar. The word 'tails' is in a different colour to the rest of the writing. Now I'm not sure if this is supposed to be an intentional joke, or simply whoever 'done the crime' just ran out of green paint and left something accidental which could be construed as rude. Either way, my wife and I thought it sensible to let you know.
Please don't think me a prude. My other wife and I love our share of bawdy ribaldry on occasion (you should see some of the words that come out of our bi-annual Christmas Boggle tournament!), but if this graffiti is indeed unknown to your non-so-watchful eye then we thought it better to bring to your attention than not. It's also worth me noting how much we enjoyed the experience of your bar - other than this crude allusion to an extraneous affection for male poultry - and the Appletinis unofficially commissioned by your barman were absolutely delicious. We will be sure to come back again on our way to a conference on now-defunct railway terminologies (ie: 'ashcat', which ironically also came out at last year's Boggle tournament, but sadly was rejected by my Uncle Wojciech on grounds of being previously-established as defunct) when we are in Earlsfield again in July.
Apologies for the dimness of the image in the attached photograph, although a professional (photographer) might argue that this was more down to the poor quality of light in your establishment that the flash equipment with which my camera was originally endowed in its manufacture.
Yours sincerely,
I came up with idea today whilst trapped in the belly of London's loudest and most intimidating MRI machine, whilst listening to the attemptedly-soothing 'Le Bleus de la Docteur' playlist assembled in the winter of 2009 / 2010:
Laura Marling - Ghosts
Edith Piaf - La Vie En Rose
Smokey Robinson - Don't Know Why
Ane Brun - The Treehouse Song
The Perishers - Pills
Radiohead - Fake Plastic Trees
The song choices are neither here nor there really. Just context.
I eagerly await a reply to both this valuable correspondence and the results of the aforementioned scan. I have a feeling that both could prove interesting.
(Particularly the latter. I'm intrigued to see if the pea-sized ball of tin foil that I forced up my nose in 1989 - and never recall seeing since - has now worked its way into the cavernous and probably hollow atria of what is laughably labelled my brain.)
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Laura Marling - Ghosts
Edith Piaf - La Vie En Rose
Smokey Robinson - Don't Know Why
Ane Brun - The Treehouse Song
The Perishers - Pills
Radiohead - Fake Plastic Trees
The song choices are neither here nor there really. Just context.
I eagerly await a reply to both this valuable correspondence and the results of the aforementioned scan. I have a feeling that both could prove interesting.
(Particularly the latter. I'm intrigued to see if the pea-sized ball of tin foil that I forced up my nose in 1989 - and never recall seeing since - has now worked its way into the cavernous and probably hollow atria of what is laughably labelled my brain.)
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Tuesday, 7 June 2011
Arguing The Metaphorical Toss With Celebrity (And Losing)
Dear Octopus,
I've always found it difficult to take advice. The whole concept seems flawed. The intricacies and idiosyncrasies of our lives are such that you can't ever really make someone understand them, let alone make them unanimously understand how you actually feel about them. So if it's impossible for the advisor to really 'get' what you're talking about, what possible value can their advice have? They haven't grown up like you, sampled the same meagre hopes, or sighed knowingly at the same disappointments. They don't know the protagonists of your stories like you know them; what's real, and what's only the grim artifice of pride, or vanity. They're trying to write an essay about a book of which they've only read the back cover.
Strange then that last night I found myself on a train returning from the picturesque East Sussex countryside in the company of a man who gets paid enormous amounts of money to do just that. He is a counsellor, life coach, relationship expert, TV personality and best-selling author. I am the sole contributor to a rambling, incoherent set of letters read only by you, my dear Octopus. And you can't even read them. Quite a discrepancy of fortunes I'm sure you'll agree, and one that was keenly felt in an empty train carriage passing gracelessly through the idyllic rural evening.
So we get to talking about our day together, and after the usual obligatory small talk he asks me about my personal life. I tell him. He asks more questions. I tell him. Before I know it, he's dissecting the more interesting parts of my current and so-called life with scalpels, tweezers and electrical equipment; searing questions tearing innocently through days, weeks and months of carefully-assembled denial, and years of superlative evasion techniques.
'Am I on the meter?' I suddenly ask, acutely aware of the fact that his hourly rates run to four figures (pounds sterling), and I could soon be receiving an invoice for which I have literally no means to pay. He assured me that the 'session' - somewhere between the dreary satellite towns of Frant and Orpington by now - was on the house. This was his cue then, to launch into his final prognosis on the state of my affairs.
Unsurprisingly, the results were unsurprising. I heard what I expected. In a nutshell; he told me I was wrong. I expected it....because had I been him, I would have said exactly the same thing.
But....my opening point is still my best (probably something of a trend I imagine). I am not him. And he is not me. And although it may be easy to characterise and define certain behaviours by certain pre-determined archetypes that sell books and make compelling television, he doesn't know the full story. People only know what you tell them, after all. It's arrogance on my part I imagine. But it either takes illogical fortitude or idiotic stubbornness to argue with a suitably (in this case extremely suitably) qualified professional, and for all my doubts I still honestly hope that the cause for my pig-headedness is the former rather than the latter. If not, I really am fucked this time.
I told all of this to the Goat and the Toad tonight in an all-you-can-eat Brazilian restaurant by Putney Bridge. They agreed with him too. But then, they are not me either.
I am not wrong Octopus.
I guess only time can tell.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
I've always found it difficult to take advice. The whole concept seems flawed. The intricacies and idiosyncrasies of our lives are such that you can't ever really make someone understand them, let alone make them unanimously understand how you actually feel about them. So if it's impossible for the advisor to really 'get' what you're talking about, what possible value can their advice have? They haven't grown up like you, sampled the same meagre hopes, or sighed knowingly at the same disappointments. They don't know the protagonists of your stories like you know them; what's real, and what's only the grim artifice of pride, or vanity. They're trying to write an essay about a book of which they've only read the back cover.
Strange then that last night I found myself on a train returning from the picturesque East Sussex countryside in the company of a man who gets paid enormous amounts of money to do just that. He is a counsellor, life coach, relationship expert, TV personality and best-selling author. I am the sole contributor to a rambling, incoherent set of letters read only by you, my dear Octopus. And you can't even read them. Quite a discrepancy of fortunes I'm sure you'll agree, and one that was keenly felt in an empty train carriage passing gracelessly through the idyllic rural evening.
So we get to talking about our day together, and after the usual obligatory small talk he asks me about my personal life. I tell him. He asks more questions. I tell him. Before I know it, he's dissecting the more interesting parts of my current and so-called life with scalpels, tweezers and electrical equipment; searing questions tearing innocently through days, weeks and months of carefully-assembled denial, and years of superlative evasion techniques.
'Am I on the meter?' I suddenly ask, acutely aware of the fact that his hourly rates run to four figures (pounds sterling), and I could soon be receiving an invoice for which I have literally no means to pay. He assured me that the 'session' - somewhere between the dreary satellite towns of Frant and Orpington by now - was on the house. This was his cue then, to launch into his final prognosis on the state of my affairs.
Unsurprisingly, the results were unsurprising. I heard what I expected. In a nutshell; he told me I was wrong. I expected it....because had I been him, I would have said exactly the same thing.
But....my opening point is still my best (probably something of a trend I imagine). I am not him. And he is not me. And although it may be easy to characterise and define certain behaviours by certain pre-determined archetypes that sell books and make compelling television, he doesn't know the full story. People only know what you tell them, after all. It's arrogance on my part I imagine. But it either takes illogical fortitude or idiotic stubbornness to argue with a suitably (in this case extremely suitably) qualified professional, and for all my doubts I still honestly hope that the cause for my pig-headedness is the former rather than the latter. If not, I really am fucked this time.
I told all of this to the Goat and the Toad tonight in an all-you-can-eat Brazilian restaurant by Putney Bridge. They agreed with him too. But then, they are not me either.
I am not wrong Octopus.
I guess only time can tell.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Sunday, 5 June 2011
If You'll Be My Bodyguard, I Can Be Your Long-Lost Pal...
Dear Octopus,
New housemate Dutch arrived this week, to a fanfare of excitement and merriment on all sides. (And certainly not because she brought a spell-bindingly wonderful 37" Panasonic LCD television for the living room.) Contrary to what her name might directly or indirectly imply she's actually Scottish, and as such consumes luminous orange toxin 'Irn-Bru' at an astonishing rate. I personally can't see the attraction; for one thing the vowels are in all the wrong places. It's as though an educationally-baffled seven year old has tried to spell 'Iron Brew' phonetically.
Over the course of a weekend's bonding - beers at the Pig on Friday, sunbathing in the park yesterday, driving aimlessly around the streets of Tooting, Earlsfield and Wimbledon today looking for a stand for the aforementioned television set - Dutch has quizzed me extensively on many topics required to 'get to know someone like', the answers of which have surprised even me. It's not often that you ask yourself these things, frankly.
The difficult part though is that I was only allowed one answer per question. Never an easy task for an ocean creature so evidently verbose.
But as follows:
What's your favourite city (other than London)?
Chicago
Where do you most want to live in ten years' time?
I can categorically say that I will not be alive in ten years' time
Where would you eat your last meal?
Terroirs
What characteristic annoys you most in other people?
Either lateness or the inability to apologise, tied
What characteristic do you respect most in other people?
Empathy
What's your biggest fault?
The inability to apologise. A close second would be consistently buying soy sauce even though I know I already have some and don't even like it
What's your biggest strength?
Good manners / politeness (around grown-ups)
What are you most afraid of?
Geese
Who's the best friend you ever had?
Octopus
Who's your nemesis?
The Dragon (urgh)
Who's the funniest person you know?
My younger brother
Who's your hero?
My older brother
What's your most annoying habit?
Talking too much
What's your favourite word?
Sure
Most valued personal possession?
My watch
If you could tell one person to 'get fucked' who would it be?
Sol Campbell
Most common dream / nightmare?
Teeth falling out
Most common worry?
Money
I've just realised how vain and/or self-centred it is to have written out my own answers to these questions, seeing as: (a) you probably know all of these things anyway, and (b): this was a good opportunity to introduce you to the quirky mind and entertaining idiosyncrasies of our new housemate, stranger as she is to you. Needless to say she is fun, funny and we are getting along famously.
I will endeavour to enlighten you further as to her character in the coming weeks.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
New housemate Dutch arrived this week, to a fanfare of excitement and merriment on all sides. (And certainly not because she brought a spell-bindingly wonderful 37" Panasonic LCD television for the living room.) Contrary to what her name might directly or indirectly imply she's actually Scottish, and as such consumes luminous orange toxin 'Irn-Bru' at an astonishing rate. I personally can't see the attraction; for one thing the vowels are in all the wrong places. It's as though an educationally-baffled seven year old has tried to spell 'Iron Brew' phonetically.
Over the course of a weekend's bonding - beers at the Pig on Friday, sunbathing in the park yesterday, driving aimlessly around the streets of Tooting, Earlsfield and Wimbledon today looking for a stand for the aforementioned television set - Dutch has quizzed me extensively on many topics required to 'get to know someone like', the answers of which have surprised even me. It's not often that you ask yourself these things, frankly.
The difficult part though is that I was only allowed one answer per question. Never an easy task for an ocean creature so evidently verbose.
But as follows:
What's your favourite city (other than London)?
Chicago
Where do you most want to live in ten years' time?
I can categorically say that I will not be alive in ten years' time
Where would you eat your last meal?
Terroirs
What characteristic annoys you most in other people?
Either lateness or the inability to apologise, tied
What characteristic do you respect most in other people?
Empathy
What's your biggest fault?
The inability to apologise. A close second would be consistently buying soy sauce even though I know I already have some and don't even like it
What's your biggest strength?
Good manners / politeness (around grown-ups)
What are you most afraid of?
Geese
Who's the best friend you ever had?
Octopus
Who's your nemesis?
The Dragon (urgh)
Who's the funniest person you know?
My younger brother
Who's your hero?
My older brother
What's your most annoying habit?
Talking too much
What's your favourite word?
Sure
Most valued personal possession?
My watch
If you could tell one person to 'get fucked' who would it be?
Sol Campbell
Most common dream / nightmare?
Teeth falling out
Most common worry?
Money
I've just realised how vain and/or self-centred it is to have written out my own answers to these questions, seeing as: (a) you probably know all of these things anyway, and (b): this was a good opportunity to introduce you to the quirky mind and entertaining idiosyncrasies of our new housemate, stranger as she is to you. Needless to say she is fun, funny and we are getting along famously.
I will endeavour to enlighten you further as to her character in the coming weeks.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
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