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.