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
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