Darby and Joan: November 2012
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| 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,
I feel proper well naughty writing you a Darby and Joan letter- designed as they are to tell you I miss you- when only two days ago we drank tea on my sofa together, being all in the same place at the same time and laying on my living room floor and playing Halloween dress up with disastrous results.
Actually: details. I drank tea on my sofa. You probably had some sort of hot Vimto monstrosity, because you have terrible taste. A bit like how in the crisps shop you never get Paprika Max Ridged crisps, or Red Sky Cream Cheese ones. You get fucking pork flavoured Wheeties for 20p and then chew too loudly, and every single time I am forced to comment out loud in my whiny voice that those *would* be your choice, wouldn’t they? URGH.
Out of all the crisps in all the world! WHEETIES! I mean, why? It just makes no sense to me. If I were to put All The Crisps into a ranked order of ‘awesome-est’ to ‘absolute shittest’ Weeties really would come second to last out of the eleventy thousand options. Those awful roasted parsnip things would be at the bottom: they don’t even deserve to be in the crisp aisle since THEY AREN’T EVEN FREAKING POTATO WHY ARE THEY EVEN A THING WHAT IS THEIR PURPOSE DEAR GOD?
But now I’m just getting distracted from my point.
What is my point?
OH, YEAH. You and me.
I suppose I am entitled to say that I miss you despite not one but TWO (!) weekend visits this month, because it’s true. I got home from work on Wednesday night and you weren’t waiting to greet me with stories about your day, and that made me do major sad face panda.
Just be in my life all of the time already, k? JOKE’S OVER NOW.
But you aren’t finished doing what you have to do yet. I get it. I understand that the best place for you right now is everywhere. As much as I would just like, totally die, if you were to move into the flat across the hall from me or similar, where together we could be on my living room floor ALL THE TIME, and not just THIRTY MINUTES AT A TIME, that’s just not a thing right now.
You fucker.
It might not ever be a thing, now that I mull over the reality of it. Neither of us want to be based in England- we both want American shores. But whereas you see yourself in New York I think my angel philosophies and head scarves and desire to be in bed by midnight and up at 7 a.m. every. single. day means that the only place I could possibly live is the batshit crazy Californian coast. Where there is sunshine. And sea. And AMERICAN MEN.
That is at least one thing we agree on. Men with visa opportunities.
But if I think about that too much, for too long, I start to get anxious and a bit mental, because OHMYGOD. What if we never live in the same city together ever again? What if all those times you were just down the street and I was all, NAH, IT’S TOO COLD TO WALK THE THREE AND A HALF MINUTES TO YOUR HOUSE FOR SCRABBLE, or CAN’T BE ARSED TO MEET YOU AT THE PUB, or YEAH- I’LL SKIP SATURDAY NIGHT BOLLOCKS TONIGHT I THINK I’d been wasting valuable Darby and Joan time?
(OKAY FINE. None of those things ever happened. Not once did I refuse an invite to hang out with you. NOT ONCE. But shit! What if we should’ve made more opportunities to be in each other’s company? What about all the hours we spent in separate houses not being together? What about the precious hours apart when we had to go to work? When we divided to go and conquer men? Bathroom breaks?)
IT ALL JUST FEELS SO WASTED TO ME NOW.
So I have to find solace in the times you crash on my sofa between trips to Berlin and Iceland. And even when you’re gone, there are traces of you here. Like the way the red cashmere blanket isn’t thrown over the arm of the sofa properly.
Like the fact that I’ve got no eggs left because this week was the week you decided you simply really just wanted eggs, you know? Like, any way they come.
Like how your fucking Vimto is still on the sideboard.
In fact, YEAH. You buy the wrong crisps, and want to live in the wrong city, and DRINK STUPID FUCKING VIMTO LIKE YOU’RE CHARLOTTE FUCKING CHURCH OR SOMETHING SO FINE THEN. BYEEEEEE! SEE YA! YOU’RE PRETTY SUCKY ANYWAY!!!!!!
I’m not even bothered that our crazymentalbrilliant lives mean every interaction we have comes with a time limit like a Countdown conundrum.
Not. Even. Bothered. One. Tiny. Bit. You. Egg. Eating. Bad. Blanket. Folding. Centre. Of. My. Universe. Soul. Brother.
Joan x
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