Last weekend, as my boyfriend and I began planning the move from respective sharehouses into our own place, I said something that shocked me to my very core.
We were listing all the things we’ll need in the new house – couches, fridge, washing machine, bed, tea towels, kettle, ironing board, dining table, chairs, TV, dryer, wardrobe, washing line, pegs, Tupperware, oh god, why do adults need so many things – when the words slipped out.
“Do we even need a TV?”
I regretted it as soon as I said it. I rushed to my television‘s side (where did it live again?) and caressed its dusty exterior, muttering sweet nothings in its ear.
I will never leave you, I whispered into its little speaker holes. Of course you’re coming to the new house.
And I meant it. I really did.
TV is my late night procrastination tool. My friend when my other friends aren’t answering their Nokia flip phones. My passive-aggressive way to ignore my mum when she’s telling me to do my homework.
God, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?
Come to think of it — the last time I actually turned on the TV was quite a long time ago. The opening ceremony of the Sydney Olympics rings a bell. Something about Guy Sebastian winning Australian Idol?
“Not to worry,” I thought, settling myself in on the couch. “We’ll just have a good, long catch up right now.”
Turns out I’d forgotten a few things about the TV-watching experience. Like that you need a remote to turn it on or change the channel or, actually, do anything.
And that remotes are notoriously sly and difficult to locate.
And that the only things on during the day are talk shows, infomercials and 80s movies.