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?