22 going on…30 apparently

So it turns out that my Mother giving me anti-wrinkle cream for Christmas wasn’t a completely unfounded gift idea.

Last Thursday was my 23^rd birthday. I was once informed by some male colleagues that 22 is the last age a woman is considered young and sprightly. Harsh, I know. But there appears to be some merit in the assertion. Because judging by three fairly traumatising and quite frankly inescapable comments made to me recently, I appear to have aged 8 years in the past 365 days.

The first comment I could have quite easily passed off as childhood naivety. Brownies (children, not chocolate) are quite frequently supervised by parent volunteers - therefore, when I began helping out on Tuesdays it was only natural for them to enquire as to whose Mummy I was. However, after smiling pleasantly and informing the blonde, freckled darling that I wasn’t anybody’s Mummy, she pulled an expression of quite clear confusion then asked “Are you Alice’s Mummy?” Hmmm. Apparently not convinced.

Then, just three days after this first dent to my self-esteem, I was further beaten down when my colleague, astounded on discovering that I was 22, said she’d thought I was 28. Brilliant.

And the final blow came last week, during a seemingly-harmless discussion with the kids in my class about families. It went something like this:

“Miss Hamill, are you married?”

I smile. “No, I’m not married.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Yes, I have a boyfriend.”

Mild confusion spreads across the faces of the group huddled at my feet. “So why aren’t you married?”

My smile falters. “Well.....”

“Mrs Oxford has a baby. Do you have any children?”

“No, I don’t have any children”. At this point the group are looking decidedly sceptical.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t, alright! Who are you, my Mother!?” I obviously did not say this but you get the idea.

In hindsight, what I really should have done in answer to these comments was invite the offenders round to my flat – a brief tour of which should demonstrate quite adequately that I really shouldn’t be allowed to fend for myself, let alone a husband or children. Highlights include my wardrobe, which still doesn’t have any doors; My kitchen cupboard, which currently consists of one clove of garlic, some easy-cook rice and a fairly-questionable tube of tomato puree; And, more poignantly, this...

This was a cactus. Enough said.

So to sum up, things are not looking good on the ageing front. And the only counter-argument I had left to cling to – that none of these people REALLY knew me - failed spectacularly on my birthday as I gazed over my lovely collection of presents which included a biscuit tin, five hardback classics and a knitting kit from my Mother, complete with needles, yarn and a sewing bag. The girls did buy me some sexy underwear but I think it was more of a hint than anything.

A Remote Dream

Anyone who read my post dated 27^th October will probably be unsurprised to learn that although our front room entertainment system is vast, it is lacking a few basics – most notably a functioning right-hand speaker, a second scart lead and a remote control for the DVD player.

Now, I am aware that the next statement may seem a little obtuse in comparison to, say, living in the slums of Mumbai or detonating bombs in Afghanistan, but life without a remote control can be hard. Gone are the carefree days of fast forward, rewind and – dare I say it – menu. Say goodbye to soaring effortlessly through episodes of Sex and the City at just the touch of a button and to feeling safe in the knowledge that should you need the loo mid-scene, pause is always there to lend a helping hand.

Yes my friends, we are living a poverty-stricken life of play, stop and power. Don’t get me wrong, we also have search, but in a cruel twist of fate it only works to skip through scenes, leaving us brutally divided from an entire world of exhilarating bonus features and sing-along options.

But there’s one more, truly devastating, outcome of this sad affair. One element of our media consumption which I truly believe we take for granted are the hurdles a person needs to overcome before reaching the wonder of the feature film. There are of course the audience-appropriate trailers, the copyright WARNING which (even with the privilege of a remote) is frustratingly impossible to skip, and of course a vital reminder of that moral panic which looms over us all – video piracy.

But before reaching any of these trials there’s one screen, one obstacle, more immovable than them all, which – without the aid of a remote – one has little chance of defeating. Yes, it’s the language selection screen. And if, in a moment of political correctness, the production team have decided to default alphabetically, your film is rendered forever unwatchable unless you’re fluent in Albanian or occasionally Arabic. On that note, a word to the blonde, don’t make the same faux pas I did...there’s no need turn off yet another film because it’s defaulted to Australian.

And so it has become that, as none of us have Albanian, Arabic or indeed Australian heritage, there’s now a forlorn collection of DVDs collecting dust on our bookshelf, indefinitely confined to a life of worthlessness. One loss in particular brings such acute pain to my heart that it hurts to say the words. All I can bring myself to write is a truly heartfelt admission of love and deepest regret that, for now, my dear Mr Darcy, your shirt must remain undampened. But I will forever live in hope that one glorious, sunny day we will be reunited in the grounds of Pemberley and the world will be right once again.

Tango, Uniform, Victor, What now!?

For the average human being, there’s no telephone conversation more bewildering than when the caller, when asked for their surname, starts hurling random and disconnected words at you as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. You may have come across it - the conversation sounds something like this...

“And could I just take your surname, Sir?”

“Certainly, it’s Sierra, Mike, Yankee, Tango, Hotel, Echo.”

Silence.

I don’t think it’s politically incorrect to tell you that the first time this happened to me, it took a good few seconds before I realised I was not in fact dealing with a turrets sufferer. The official term for this indecipherable torrent of words is the NATO phonetic alphabet, designed originally for increased accuracy over radio transmission, but now used mainly to terrorise telesales staff.

It’s like a secret code, bestowed only upon those over 65 or employed in the military, which not only allows the user the privilege of communication over long distances and under poor signal, but also the wonderful smugness that entails coming across someone who is uneducated in “the code”.

And of course, what makes it worse is that whenever we are forced to use this ridiculous alternative to spelling out, every single word we can think of is either inconceivably immature or totally inappropriate. And it happens every time! As incomprehensible a phenomenon as crop circles or Bruce Forsyth...

You’re asked to spell out ‘Thompson’ and all of a sudden there are simply NO WORDS beginning with the letter ‘T’. Your mind’s racing, heart thrashing, grasping desperately for something, anything! Then out of nowhere a chaotic array of juvenile words flash before your eyes...‘tits’, ‘tofu’, ‘toilet’...NO!!...‘toast’....OH SHIT!...‘toggle!’, ‘testicle!’......'TAKE THAT!!’

After five seconds of agonising silence, you’re forced to settle for ‘torch’, and breathe a sigh of relief. Until you turn back to the task at hand and are hit with ‘H’. Bollocks!...‘hymen!’, ‘hermaphrodite!’, ‘whore!’...THAT’S NOT EVEN AN ‘H’!!

Incidentally, the NATO phonetic alphabet is actually formerly known as the international radiotelephony spelling alphabet. That’s India, November, Tango, Echo...

Go figure.

My Shining Moment

Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, good and beautiful people of the jury...it’s happened.

(For a little background, please refer to my post dated 11^th January).

It was a typical scene in the Hamill household. The soothing tenor of Jeremy Clarkson humming in the background; my father, king of the Times crossword, working steadily through the current conundrum; Mum ignoring the phone for the third time while singing “I’m not home” and searching the TV guide for something horticultural after the 9pm watershed, and Ali sprawled casually across the single chair which completes our not-quite-retro furniture set, watching James May strap a Mini to a hot air balloon and twirling his ceaselessly vibrating mobile in one hand. While observing this scene and wondering exactly how long it’s been since I received a text from someone other than my mother, Dad set down the paper and sighed those oh-too-familiar words “Well I’m stumped.”

Knowing better than to let myself believe I had a hope in hell of answering the two remaining clues, I reached across for my cup of tea and the Business section (and by ‘Business’, I quite clearly mean ‘Entertainment’), letting Mum continue the inevitable questions. My assumption appeared to be correct when clue number one was the missing word from the title of a lesser-known piece of political theatre to emerge from the 70s. But as Dad recited the second clue, the room melted away, the heavens opened, and a glorious beam of light engulfed me, accompanied by the nurturing voice of Morgan Freeman saying “Gemma Hamill, this is your moment.”

Bringing me back to reality, Dad repeated the clue: “19^th Century author, most famous for her semi-autobiographical novel depicting the trials of the March family.”

I took a calm and extended sip from my cup, slowly turned the un-read page of my paper, and without even an upwards glance, announced “It’s Louisa May Alcott.”

Thank you ladies and gentlemen, and good night!

Evidence that I’m going a little mad

As some of you may know, after three years of intense study, sleepless nights and almost-sectioning to gain a first class degree in Media, I have now decided to go into teaching. And because fate apparently isn’t quite through with using me as his sex-toy, he’s decided to deal me this realisation just after the submission deadline for this year’s teacher training. Which is how I’ve now found myself in a gap-year-esque state of voluntary work experience and countless, soul-destroying hours of googling “temp work”.

Now, previous to my current state of unemployment, I was under the impression that the most high-risk time of year for weight-gain was Christmas. I was wrong. You’d be surprised just how much a person can find to eat in a house that hasn’t seen a proper food shop for three months. Especially when that person has spent the last five days imprisoned within the same four walls with only Facebook and an electronic - albeit very friendly - “Recruitment Advisor” called Alan for company.

So, in an attempt to delay the inevitable onset of madness (and consumption of an already-open pack of hot crossed buns lying on the side) I’ve reworked a well-loved Christmas Carol - and pretty much destroyed it - for your sing-along pleasure. But don’t worry, I won’t give up the day job. Oh, hang on.

So please find below the words and, if you’re feeling particularly rediculous, a link which will take you to the background instrumental, courtesy of YouTube. Go on, you know you want to try it...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AmEpVUSQ2JY

The 12 days of Job-Hunt

On the first day of job hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

A litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

 

On the second day of job hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

Two bits of toast,

And a litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

 

On the third day of job hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

Three swiss rolls,

Two bits of toast,

And a litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

 

On the fourth day of job hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

Four Cuppa Soups,

Three swiss rolls,

Two bits of toast,

And a litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

 

On the fifth day of job hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

Five token grapes,

Four Cuppa Soups,

Three swiss rolls,

Two bits of toast,

And a litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

 

On the sixth day of job hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

Six stale pittas,

Five token grapes,

Four Cuppa Soups,

Three swiss rolls,

Two bits of toast,

And a litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

 

On the seventh day of job hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

Seven smashed digestives,

Six stale pittas,

Five token grapes,

Four Cuppa Soups,

Three swiss rolls,

Two bits of toast,

And a litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

 

On the eighth day of job hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

Eight crumbed-ham slices,

Seven smashed digestives,

Six stale pittas,

Five token grapes,

Four Cuppa Soups,

Three swiss rolls,

Two bits of toast,

And a litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

 

On the ninth day of job hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

Nine frozen waffles,

Eight crumbed-ham slices,

Seven smashed digestives,

Six stale pittas,

Five token grapes,

Four Cuppa Soups,

Three swiss rolls,

Two bits of toast,

And a litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

 

On the tenth day of job hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

Ten chocolate pancakes,

Nine frozen waffles,

Eight crumbed-ham slices,

Seven smashed digestives,

Six stale pittas,

Five token grapes,

Four Cuppa Soups,

Three swiss rolls,

Two bits of toast,

And a litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

 

On the eleventh day of job hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

Eleven fists of Frosties,

Ten chocolate pancakes,

Nine frozen waffles,

Eight crumbed-ham slices,

Seven smashed digestives,

Six stale pittas,

Five token grapes,

Four Cuppa Soups,

Three swiss rolls,

Two bits of toast,

And a litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

 

On the twelfth day of job-hunt I didn’t mean to eat,

Twelve week-old scotch eggs,

Eleven fists of Frosties,

Ten chocolate pancakes,

Nine frozen waffles,

Eight crumbed-ham slices,

Seven smashed digestives,

Six stale pittas,

Five token grapes,

Four Cuppa Soups,

Three swiss rolls,

Two bits of toast,

And a litre of Ben & Jerry’s.

Like yourself that little bit less...for just £1.80!

A few weeks ago, on returning from Boots, I set out in pursuit of something pink and glossy lying around the office to peruse while eating my customary Meal Deal. Little did I know that by locating the desired object, I was condemning myself to eating only the salad portion of my BLT sandwich and binning my much-loved Gordon’s Frusli bar.

Long, blonde hair curled seductively around her jaw line, a pout worthy of Marilyn, and the type of skin-tight black dress we’d sell our boyfriend to be able to wear. Christina Aguilera doesn’t seem to have aged a day since she emerged on the music scene at the wholesome age of 18, but having been steered lovingly through our angst-filled teenage years by classics like What a Girl Wants and Come on Over, we can’t hate her too much for it.

Until she appears on the cover of Cosmopolitan next to the quote “I feel sexiest naked”.

Brilliant! Thanks Christina. Just because us plebeians can’t afford personal trainers, dieticians and authentically-Indian yoga instructors, doesn’t mean we deserve to know just how fabulous YOU feel about your peachy bum and cellulite-free Barbie thighs. And what is Cosmo playing at? Surely this is not an effective way to sell magazines?!

I can just picture next month’s teaser:

Regular women of Britain! Yes, you, in the toiletries aisle downgrading to Tesco own-brand shampoo. Here are just some of the fabulous things you can look forward to in this month’s Cosmo...

- Never-seen-before photos of your ex’s new girlfriend, complete with a exciting game of spot all the ways she’s more attractive than you.

- The top 10 places in London to be handed a Lose weight, feel great leaflet.

- Exclusive interview: Your mother reveals all – the boyfriends who’ve left you, the birthdays when nobody turned up, and the truth about those pants...

- A letter from your GP wishing you a happy 25^th birthday and inviting you to have a smear test.

- A handy list of all the Indian takeaway services in your local area who know you by voice recognition.

- £5 off your next purchase of anti-wrinkle cream.

- And for a limited time only, a FREE copy of Dee Pressing’s Alone and living with cats.

I think I’m onto something.

Oh HONORIFICABILITUDINITATIBUS, of course!

Why is it that, no matter how intelligent the person, as soon as someone gives up on a crossword, we are overwhelmed by an innate and impatient need to complete it?

The predecessor could be Leonardo Da Vinci. Issac Newton. Carol Vorderman. And it wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference. The bartender opposite would still wait in greedy anticipation for the moment to pounce and, on cue, clear his throat, nod casually at the discarded page and grunt “’Gis a look then”. I would defy even Miss Hilton, on seeing her lunch companion reluctantly admit defeat, not to lift her chin and pronounce “I sat through, like, two terms of college actually Mr Hawking. It was hot.”

And we do it because, for that one shining moment, we are certain there must be something we know that none of our peers are privy to - Some unique life experience, a la Slumdog Millionaire, which will race to the aid of the sad, incomplete puzzle. As soon as we sense a defeat looming, all the topics we specialised in at school, college and university flash through our heads, as we suddenly feel like our whole lives have been building up to this one moment.

Which is why we are horribly and inevitably dejected on discovering that we actually know bugger all. Those years in education, the places we’ve seen, all of it has been wasted because we can’t unearth another word for ‘foliage’. And only after exhausting every emotion – hope, determination, anger, then total certainty that there IS no other word, do we throw in the towel and blame it on The Times for being so unreasonably difficult.