I’m enjoying a rare day off by editing together a series of clips from our recent rehearsals. Granted the nature of the work is not my most mature or profound – it is just a collection of silly faces we pull when we can’t think of a definitive way of ending a scene.
The doorbell rings, for a long time.
I get up, wondering if I pissed off the neighbour by closing the blind when he took to preening his hedge from an advantage point for peering through into our lounge.
I look through the peephole. Nothing.
I open the door.
“Is your mum or dad in?”
I stare blankly at a man who looks around nineteen years of age.
“Are you students?”
I continue to stare, and probably frown confusedly. There is only me in the doorway, and indeed, the house.
“Are you students?”
“No,” I almost laugh.
His next sentence is garbled but somewhere near the end, it is revealed that he is selling tea towels, among other things.
“Ah, no, we’re okay, thank you.”
I close the door, tentatively because he seems to still be speaking, although I assume it is not meant for me, because our conversation was conducted over the adjoining wall with next door, who he seems to now be invested in with slightly more hope.
So, I am twenty-six, and seem not to look old enough to buy tea towels. I have to look in the mirror to assimilate this. I am wearing a fleece, no make up and an I-don’t-give-a-toss bun in my hair. I have one tragus piercing, and that is it. No adornments. Ah. Hang on. It’s the Winnie the Pooh pyjamas isn’t it. That’s what gave it away. I’m not dressed at 1pm on a Wednesday, and I’m a Disney fan. I must be at university, or awaiting my mid-afternoon nap. I’m only 5’2. The boy’s mistake is understandable, then. Perhaps I should try harder to look more in keeping with my own kind. You know, those strange people who are actual adults, live in the city, go to work and rent houses, and do whatever the fuck they like with their time off. I wonder what they look like.