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