Escaping Life Through TV

Although you may not instantly realize it to look at my fluffy jumper-clad form (purchased during a terrific online sale in the smallest, yet snuggliest size, natch) and take notice of my remarkable habits which also includes a feverish delight in being taken away by a captivating book and drawling at the oh-so-heavenly sight of the birthday cake I intend to make at the end of the month, watching television doesn't particularly stand out as a large and highly important part of my life.

The reason why, you innocently ask, as you struggle to get out off the sofa in a red-faced, sweat-trickling rush? What with my natural preferences to receive maximum enjoyment through spending numerous hours in front of another screen - it needn't take two to tango in order to realize the desktop-sized screen which I'm talking about - why should I count away the time through sitting down once again to be drawn into a fictional world (the only exception tends to be documentaries based in a near-riotous secondary schools, a show of which I'm bursting with impatience to return to our screens) when I could be doing something more meaningful and achievable with my ever-so-precious time? Perhaps mentioning my excitable passion for a school-themed programme has broken the previously magical spell which I had cast to represent a different part to my novel-addicted personality, but I guess that the truth ought to be told in front of my adoring fans (if any do exist): as soon as the sun has firmly disappeared behind numerous dark-as-my-mood (only during my thankfully rare moments of pure teenage fury) clouds and a glimpse of the moon can be seen through my window, I race to the living room and grab the TV remote to catch up with my favourite programmes, being instantly taken for an exciting ride to an universe similar in appearance to my own, yet entirely free of factory-produced Cornish pasties and sale-purchased Adidas tracksuits threatening to ruin my unveiled enjoyment.

Yes, yes, I know that I may sound a little overly dramatic with my descriptions and could appear dangerously far-fetched when I tell of my stories related to hissing kittens (one of which already seems to share a similar personality to my own, which, in hindsight, is quite a startling thought) and fights over who dominates The Sofa for the duration of the evening, but who am I to avoid the honest fact that I do immerse myself in heartfelt pleasure over the prospect of hiding away from razor-sharp claws and discussions over Jose Mourinho (courtesy of my brother being a loud and intensely proud Chelsea supporter) for a couple of hours per evening, typically in the comforting form of remaining glued to a 32-inch television?

Of course, my mood-lifting joy rapidly transforms into a moody sulk whenever I'm faced with the unfortunate problem of having absolutely nothing to view, whether it is regarding a film or a lack of interesting programmes being aired on TV, but I suppose that everybody is prone to getting caught up in such a frustrating moment when it comes to either discovering that none of your clothes are suitable for a date or the food lying around your fridge simply cannot be used together in a meal together, though I wouldn't put it past mad food scientist Heston Blumenthal (well, I'm not entirely sure whether he studied science at school or university, but you don't create slimy snail porridge for no reason, do you?) to come up with some wacky ideas which would make your eyes pop out of your head. Besides, when I couldn't imagine feeling happier and my dark brown hair happens to shine more prominently than Hissy Benny's silky-as-milk-chocolate fur coat, hardly a single obstacle - maybe except the sturdy wooden gate guarding my kittens from a prison-inspired escape in the Land of Food, a.k.a the kitchen - can stand in my way of being transported to another scenario and forgetting about the dry skin which I somehow never bother to scrub away on my size seven feet. Well, let's commence with my love of television, OK?

Since I was a young and pink-lipped child (without resorting to sticking on a dark shade of magenta lipstick, though I barely knew anything about cosmetics at the tender age of three), television has been present in my life and I've grown up watching countless programmes about yellow dress-donning puppets, computer-generated half-dressed dolls and even a large, imposing bear whose orange-coloured coat failed to co-ordinate with his 'big blue house' - but who cares about these childhood favourites when they are no longer on my expanded radar? Nowadays, I cannot prevent myself from being drawn to fantasy-themed shows where pale-skinned vampires (I was going to say 'creatures' instead, but I might as well use the V word for once and for all) rule the town and modern-day witches with cleavage as heavily exposed as a Playboy bunny save the day because I also share a love for those stories in the physical form of a book - some passions die hard, right?

In all honesty, I'm incapable of mustering up a logical answer for which I'm interested in myths, most of which are represented in today's culture, but perhaps it plays an important part in my desire to escape from the hassles of daily life; unless the myths are proven to be true, I'd have to be sleep-walking through town or trapped in a seemingly realistic dream to imagine that blood-sucking vampires, hairier-than-my-unshaven-legs werewolves or broom-flying witches would be trawling through the street through the dead of an all-too-rare quiet night. Mythological creatures could not be possibly further from my remarkably frank reality of keeping my head glued to the Algebra section in my maths book and peeling (and eating, if my mum's head isn't peeking in my direction) carrots in preparation of a Sunday roast, which explains my reasons for which I fall head over two-inch heels for characters wonderfully unique to people whom I regard whilst walking around town.

Alongside a soft spot for programmes such as the legendary Buffy the Vampire Slayer (which kicked off my long-running interest in sci-fi at the age of ten) and sister-oriented Charmed, I couldn't have bitten into a juicier apple than the soap-inspired Desperate Housewives, which has remained a favourite of my equally engaged family almost ever since it first aired on our screens. From the moment my brother and I pressed 'Play' on the remote, it didn't take a single heartbeat to fall in love with the housewives - all of which I grew to like in their separate ways - and the idyllic-looking street where they reside, heavenly Wisteria Lane. Even to this day, I still dream of moving to an area as beautiful and perfect as Fairview because its appearance reminds me of my life-long want to live amongst a society as close and caring as what is depicted on the show, though I quickly learnt that you cannot instantly form an unchangeable opinion on the basis of presentation - who, if one was aware of countless affairs, problems and even murders taking place underneath their noses, would yearn to remain in a place which is not as sticky sweet as the name and pleasant image suggests? Still, none of the spectacular, yet horrifying storylines provoked me to switch the TV off because I never failed to enjoy what I now call my favourite programme, standing aside many others which have come and gone through my TV set over the past few years!

And undoubtedly, age matures you in so many ways that it doesn't necessarily dawn upon you until a particular occasion arises, which, in this case, relates to television programmes - had you been a couple of years younger, would you have been able to stay gripped on the edge of your seat during an episode of CSI like you may be now? Certain subjects may be enough to send us into a restful doze if we are incapable of appreciating the hidden message lying beneath the glossy outfits and catchy theme tune; if I'd had my own way (and kept control of the remote, which had this time been held in the hands of my father), I would've put on another re-run of The Simpsons whilst watching Revenge for the very first time because I couldn't exactly figure out the plot or grow accustomed to its suspicious characters. Three seasons on, I eagerly look forward to catching up with Emily/Amanda (it takes ages until you get used to the story and characters) once a week, which also enables me to spend some quality time with my dad whilst enjoying reliable and entertaining American TV.

OK, the last way I wish to portray myself is to brag about my interests - including ones involving a screen as wide as Weightwatcher's very worst nightmare - and the shows which captivate me the most strongly may not generate the same amount of fascination for another person, so I have no desire to shove my opinions down anybody's throat in order to promote programmes which I enjoy immensely. TV is not for everybody and hey, I'm not entirely bothered about using it as the sole source of entertainment all the time - give a laptop (with internet access, of course) and the password to my Blogger account to write about TV instead of watching it any day!

Whatever happens, I'm just going to carry on escaping my life - which I do enjoy living when spots aren't dominating my T-zone and I occasionally forget the meaning of erratic hormones - through sitting on my leather sofa and catching up with my favourite shows. And who knows which programmes will grab my attention in the near future?