Darby and Joan: October 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. 

My
gorgeous baby boy Darby,

Well
roger me sideways with a cardboard cut-out of Gaga, YOU’RE COMING TO STAY WITH
ME! This is, of course, the most exciting news I’ve had since, well. Since the
last time I knew I’d be meeting you at a random train station not in the East
Midlands. And we all know how that turned out- I got so excited I vomited and
it stained my jeans.

I
know. You’re so proud you picked me as your bestie.

I’ve
come to realise recently- and when I tell you this, you’ll be all RECENTLY?- that my infatuation with you
should most probably be cause for self-consciously large amounts of
embarrassment that would encourage a less mental person to STOP IT. Well, lucky
for you, NOT THIS GIRL.

I’m
pretty much at the point where I’m the Alexa Chung to your Nick Grimshaw,
except that you aren’t a Primrose Hill morning radio DJ and I’m not a size
double zero. But, I mean, their love and mutual respect makes me think of you
every time I read the Mail Online.

I
just admitted to reading the Mail Online and I bet you’re not even judging me for it. That’s why you’re the
bestest of the best.

The
last time I wrote to you I was living on my parents’ sofa. Well, now I live in
London. WHERE YOU WILL BE VISITING ME. Thing is, a life from scratch by default
means meeting lots of new people to put into that life. And I enjoy that, very
much. Figuring out who might like Zadie Smith as much as I do; establishing who
recognises singing show-tunes as a legitimate pastime; ascertaining who is geek
enough to pick up on the constant stream of Dame Maggie Downton references I seem hell-bent of dropping into 97% of all
interactions with human beings. That’s all kinds of awesome, that game.
Genuinely, I love it. I’m having the time of my life.

But,
in meeting all of these people, inevitably my barrage of questions about them, and why they are here, in London, and what their dreams are (which is essentially less of a conversation
and more of a military style investigation which led to one potential-friend
asking me, with no trace of irony, is
this a friendship test?) I talk about you ALL THE TIME. And
normally, when eventually I realise I’m not so much making a new friend as
writing down the name of your blog for strangers to GO HOME AND READ RIGHT NOW
THIS SECOND YOU’LL LOVE IT TELL HIM I SENT YOU GO! GO! GO! It’s too late. I’ve
already marked myself out as a hopeless basket case.

One
boy pointed out to me that essentially you’re not a want in my life but a need, and I was all like, yup, and? and he was all, well, that’s a little intimidating for
anyone trying to actually date you as a heterosexual man and not a gay best
friend, and I was like, what are you
trying to say, that I can’t be infatuated to the point of obsession? That it
makes you feel inferior that no matter how hard you try, you’ll never match up
to is place in my heart? That by comparison, you’re failing at even existing? And
this guy was all like, urm. Yeah. That’s
exactly what I’m saying, actually.

I
wish I were more sorry about that.

I’ve
been spending most of my free time doing thinking about All The Things we must
do when you arrive IN NOT VERY MANY DAYS AT ALL, and I hope you are on board
because it goes like this:

-
Doing Saturday Night Bollocks with pizza, and pic n mix, and score sheets that
involving a complex X-Factor rating system based on what the judges are
wearing, how much we want sit on the faces of the boy bands, and how many times
Louis Walsh says you look like a pop
star, you sound like a pop star, and I just want everyone at home to pick up their
phone to vote for you!

- Sitting
in a library next to each other, where we do writing and red-penning of each
other’s work, scribing things like buy a
fucking thesaurus and has the
full-stop button on your mac broken? as way of friendly encouragement.

-
Scrabble. Obviously.

- Attending
a writerly-shaped network event where we can take our homemade business cards
and get drunk on free wine, inevitably ending up sat in the corner of said
event, on the floor, loudly bitching about what people are wearing even if they
are famous or might otherwise buy our unwritten books.

I
know, I know, I bet you can’t wait to get here. This much friend fun shouldn’t
be allowed under like, FRIEND LAW or something. I’ve got one hell of a schedule
lined up for you, lover. Strap in, you’re in for a sickly-obsessed,
overly-enthusiastic ride! YAY FOR YOU!

Lots
of love, oh awesome one, and see you soon,

Your
Joan x

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