Darby and Joan: May 2012

Darby & Joan are the quintessential middle-aged British couple, characterised by knitwear, hours of scrabble, and a penchant for staying in on Saturday nights. Darby and Joan are, in fact, @calummcswiggan and me. 

Dear
Darby.

Three
weeks ago I was all, MY LIFE SUCKS! I
NEED TO SEE YOU! And you were like, I
KNOW! HOW DO WE MAKE THIS HAPPEN? And I was like, FUCK! RYANAIR HAS A RETURN FLIGHT TO EAST MIDLANDS FOR FIFTY EUROS! And
you said, WHY ARE YOU EVEN STILL TALKING
TO ME? BOOK IT!

So I
did, and then I called Mama to tell her I was coming home, and she cried. I got
so excited I couldn’t focus my eyes properly. You made reservations at our
favourite French restaurant, basically the whole reason I wanted to come home
anyway: the salted butter on that crusty baguette that they serve. We love that
restaurant. When I told dad I’d be home after lunch because PUT ALL THE BUTTER
IN MY MOUTH RIGHT NOW OKAY THANKS BYE he said, ‘Oh what, you’re going there for
a change?’

Hey.
We like what we like, don’t we? Fizzy Sainsbury’s water, and pic n’ mix from
the Indian man on the corner, and the prix
fixe menu at Bistrot Pierre. See also: Saturday Night Bollocks, Dominoes
2-4-1 pizza offer and making conversation with strangers.

My
favourite bit was when you met me at the station, and as we hugged- the only
time we would make physical contact, since we tend to avoid that in real life (but
this was a special occasion, so that was ok)- and the old woman passing us
said, ‘Now that’s a greeting! Young people just don’t hug enough, do they?’ She
carried on walking and we said, CUPS.

I
don’t even remember why we say CUPS when we don’t understand something. I just
know that the only person who understands it when I say it is you, and I only
do it when I am with you. I told you about my favourite student (‘They’re all your
favourites,’ you said) who is five years old and the spitting image of Drew
Barrymore in E.T. except dark-haired and spunkier.

Last
week we played Pictionary on the smartboard, and her turn went over the
allotted minute. She kept drawing and drawing, and nobody in the class could
figure out what it was, and as she stood back and looked at it with pride, and still nobody understood it, she flung
out her arms and pointed at what, to her, was the most obvious thing in the
world. She said impatiently, GUYS. COME
ON! IT’S A BANANA IN A HAT.

So
then we spent all afternoon not understanding things and randomly saying IT’S A
BANANA IN A HAT and I love how that now might be a new thing, because I have an
idea. I think I want a banana in a hat tattooed on my left wrist. I’m totally
serious. A sort of metaphor that how even though to us the answer is like,
totally obvious, often other people just don’t understand. And when they don’t
I’ll just shrug and say CUPS. And then, IT’S A BANANA IN HAT.

Total
awesome plan, right?

Related
thought: maybe I should get a tattoo of some cups?

Thank
you for being so patient with me this weekend, too. I know I said we only had
to walk through the shopping centre to get to the bureau de change- which you insisted on saying in a shit French
accent- but by the time I said, ‘We’ll
just pop into Topshop for like, A SECOND’ shopping fever had hit, and as I
picked up t-shirt after t-shirt and said on repeat, ‘Do you hate me? Do you
hate me because we’ve not hung out since January and now I am making you carry
my shopping?’ you just said, CUPS. When I got to Mum and Dad’s Mama said, ‘Why
have you spent all your money on 24 neon t-shirts? Why didn’t Calum stop you?’
and I said, BANANA. HAT.

Then
we went for our French food and the woman apologized that the haddock risotto
had no haddock in it, which was exciting, and you made me choose the wine and
it stained your teeth a bit, and when I got cross that the next table ordered
cappuccinos after their lunch you told me, CALM THE FUCK DOWN, LAURA. IN ITALY
CAPPUCINO MIGHT ONLY BE DRUNK BEFORE 10 A.M. BUT YOUR’E NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE
TOTO. THIS IS DERBY. AND IN DERBY WE DRINK MILKY COFFEE WHENEVER WE WANT. HAVE
A WORD WITH YOURSELF YOU UPPETY BITCH.

It’s really
hard for me not to be pretentious sometimes, and I love that you know how to
keep that in check. Ta.

We
talked about moving to London together- and not even in 2014 like we said
originally, but like, soon- and how we should set up an online magazine together.
Something for the gals and the gays, for the fags and their hags. The we said
we’d live together in a tiny little studio and just MAKE SHIT all day long, but
by the time pudding came we let the feeling pass because neither of us like
people very much and living together would probably make us hate each one
another so you know. Maybe see you in London. Maybe not. But probably.
Hopefully. Let me know how it works out for you.

Forever
you hat-wearing banana, oh cuppy-one.

Joan
x