I’m increasingly irritated by loud plasma screens in bars and find myself thinking ‘Oh why can’t they just turn that Taylor Swift bitch off and put Sky News on’, before frowning around frantically in search of a place to sit down like a peeved ferret.
I was given a very serious warning during my final year of university. A graduate acquaintance informed me that I should make the most of partying and popping around the clock, because very rapidly that glistening Glenda-esque bubble of studentdom would just pop and disappear forever.
“WHAAAT?!” I glared and seethed over the sound of Crystal Castles, casting one shifty eye around the living room of my student house, settling on a bottle of gin mixed with Lilt. No more student parties? No more melting charity shop Action Men on bonfires? No more days dedicated to Mario Kart? No more breakfast in KFC? No more waking up in the single beds of passed-out freshers, realising you don’t know their name, stealing a hoodie off their floor, raiding their fridge for a BabyBel and then letting yourself out? No more Matey bubble bath? “NEVERRR!”
I mean, I knew growing up would happen to some of us, like the beady-eyed medics, the yawning law types, or those banker boys who from the sporty spring of their step alone were always destined to join graduate schemes where they would get bent on Grigio in the morning to ease the pain of being bent over a leather-bound desk by their CEO every Wednesday.
But not me. Even if I did move to London, I’d go to work in jewel-encrusted shoulder pads with over-sized headphones and nothing but Kinder Eggs in my lunchbox. I’d attend gallery openings, appear in a few double page spreads in i-D, go for a milkshake with Emma Watson and then retire to my Regent’s Park flat for a nap with George Craig until it was time to change for dinner.
But as the first anniversary of my graduation looms, I’ve taken a quiet moment of intense self-examination to realise just how grounded I’ve become…
The most identifiable changes are of course visual: I used to have long bleached toxic yellow hair like Cyndi Lauper. I now have short ‘easy to manage’ brown hair like a 1940s postman. I used to wear pink beach shorts and faded baggy sweaters. I now wear buttoned shirts and black on black. I used to keep myself fit by dancing until breakfast or shagging like a bunny until Location, Location, Location came on. I now have a gym membership.
I used to pride myself on my pop trivia and loathe politics. I now know more about Tessa Jowell than I do about any of the chart’s latest arrivals. In fact, I’m increasingly irritated by loud plasma screens in bars and occasionally find myself thinking ‘Oh why can’t they just turn that Taylor Swift bitch off and put Sky News on’, before frowning around frantically in search of a place to sit down like a peeved ferret. And here’s the crux, the grand finale, the pivotal moment immediately after which I realised I was growing old and a psychologist may be on the cards –
I asked a Sainsbury’s cashier what the advantages of a Nectar card were.
Forgive me Lord for I have AGED!
(Note to self - INSERT HERE - to the soundtrack of my life: Being Boring by The Pet Shop Boys)