If I Could Be Anyone...

The question of who I'd be if I could be anyone in the world (living, dead or fictional) is one of the easiest hypotheticals I can imagine answering. I know a lot of people would have a harder time. They'd be sitting there in their cubicles, worrying about whether the pain in their necks is definitely or almost definitely cancer, weighing up the lives of various Hollywood actors, entrepreneurs and sexual superhumans.

'Is it better to be George Clooney at his current age, time-proof, salt and pepper woman-nip, or Matt Damon, somewhat less attractive but equally rich and presumably more virile? Aaarrgghh!!!!' They'd say. Or perhaps, caught in a philosophical mood, they'd muse:

'What's the ideal amount of money and fame to produce lasting happiness? Ahh, of course, that of T.V.'s David Mitchell. I'm so right.'

But I've bypassed all these difficult and time-consuming ruminations using the blind, unthinking certainty that my brain's first response is the right one. If I could be anyone in the world, living, dead or fictional, I'd be...(drum roll):


Moominpapa. From The Moomins.


Yes, that's right. Moominpapa, doting patriarch of the Moomin family, has the best life in all of Creation. Just spectating on his perfect life is enough to permanently enrich your own. I think the only way to accurately convey the Edenic bliss of Moominpapa's existence is to get you to imagine a day in his life. For immersion, I'll use the second person. That's where you write 'you' a lot. Public school for the win.

The long winter has just passed in Moomin valley. Spring has returned from its travels and the entire country-side sparkles. The stillness of the air, which had made it seem as though time itself had slept through the cold, is just now beginning to move with the throwing back of bedsheets. Snow climbs the frost-paled walls of Moomin house, which is the only large property in several dozen miles of prime real estate.

Moominpapa opens his eyes. He sits up, stretches and yawns. Oh my, he thinks to himself, how cold my head is! And so he climbs free of the blankets which had kept him warm through the fading season, walks sleepily over to the hat-stand and dons his favourite top hat. He feels complete. This is the only piece of clothing that Moominpapa will worry about today, or on any other day. As soon as, years before, he had selected a hat that looked good and fitted his head, he never had to shop for clothes ever again. He's happily nude from the eyebrows down. Think on, reader, think on.

Turning to the just risen Moominmama, a gorgeous specimen, Moominpapa greets her cordially.

'Morning mama, did you sleep well?'

'Yes dear', Moominmama replies, retrieving her handbag from beneath the bed and putting on her apron. 'I wonder if the children are up. Shall I make us some breakfast?'

(I want to pause here to mention that Moominmama, too, is content with only one piece of clothing, her apron. This family's weekends are looking to be pretty damn shopping-free.)

As Moominmama heads downstairs to get breakfast ready, Moominpapa takes the opportunity to open the bedroom windows. It's a little tricky at first because of the frost, but Moominpapa's biceps are no stranger to exertion, what with him having been a SEA-FARING ADVENTURER. That's right, Moominpapa spent his youth sailing the seven seas and amassing ten libraries worth of classic, knock-em-dead yarns. Ever stuck for something interesting to say at parties? Yeah, you are, because you're not Moominpapa.

Sticking his head out into the crisp morning air, Moominpapa surveys his kingdom. Mountains, streams and undulating grasslands as far as the eye can see. To the south, in easy walking distance, the ocean. I want to reiterate the point that Moomin Valley represents a housing developer's blind spot the likes of which can only exist once every few decades. I mean, really, its unbelievable. I don't even want to know what the surrounding land is worth...

Moominpapa heads downstairs to the sound of laughter. His loving son Moomin (and if there's one thing I'll say against Moominpapa, its that choice of name for his only child. It's like me calling my son 'Human') embraces him and asks him whether he wants a slice of toast with jam. Moominpapa chuckles, replies that he does, and takes his toast by the window. There's the smell of fresh coffee in the air. The spring is stretching out around Moomin House in every direction. Boundless potential for adventure, limitless creative fuel for his memoirs. Sniff, Little My, Snorkmaiden and Snuffkin have just arrived, and the house is full of funny names and good cheer.

You know what, I'm gonna stop right there before I get depressed that I'm not Moominpapa. This is not the life of a middle-aged mammalian bipedal hippo-man. It's the life of a king. Let's summarize: Marital felicity. Nudity. No shopping. Loving, non-annoying, non-soul destroying children. A hot spouse (we must assume). A satisfying outlet for literary creativity. No mortgage on a three story house in a million acres of geographical gold. A treasure-trove of cherished memories and an infinite amount to be made because he's fictional and can't die. Good food. Love. A stylin' top hat.

Case. Fucking. Closed.



Note: The above is a series of half-truths based on my excessive love of the Moomins and nostalgia for anything made in 1990 or 91. In reality, I'd be a Frankenstien-like, equal parts hybrid of Ryan Gosling, Christopher Hitchens, Stephen King, John Mayer and Jesus.