Why turning 25 doesn't automatically make you an Adult

It was my 25th birthday yesterday. There were many 'quarter century' jokes thrown my way, and I must admit, in the weeks running up to it, I was starting to get quite anxious . On the lower side of 25, things seem a lot more relaxed. You don't have to necessarily know what you want to do with your life. It's acceptable, and almost a given, to take afternoon naps, to say words like 'sick' and 'yolo' in everyday conversation, and to spend your free time on Buzzfeed or watching videos from Dapper Laughs Fans. But as soon as the big 2-5 approaches, you feel you need to change that; start doing old grown up things like getting credit cards, getting a 9-5 job, understanding mortgage lingo and buying wine because you like the taste, and not because it's the cheapest bottle.

I graduated from University when I was 23, and within 6 months I started a good job, moved 200 miles from home and rented my own flat. All very grown up, mature things. But in my head, well... I'm still very much not grown up. Sure, I do find myself saying things like 'she should really be wearing a coat in this weather' and 'I remember when petrol was 89p per litre!', but I still feel like I'm waiting to hit the grand barrier of adulthood. Like, what age do you have to be to call yourself a woman instead of a young lady? When exactly will I look at my 31 year old brother and think of him as a man, rather than just my big, goofy brother?

When I started Secondary School, equipped with a backpack the size of a small car and a 36 pack of Crayola colouring pencils, I looked up to the girls in Year 11 thinking about how mature they looked. They had an aura about them that just said 'I know the world, and it's fucking great'. I remember thinking how awesome it would be when I was in their place, and I'd have all the worldly insights that a 16 year old would have.

Except I got to 16 and felt no different. I felt like the exact same young, naive, brace-wearing, Westlife-loving girl, except now I could buy fags if I wanted. There was no 'magic', confident feeling. I assumed it was because at 18 was 'the big one'. Yeah, that was it. When I got to 18 I'd finally be able to do really cool awesome things, like drive a car, and and go to the casino, and buy alcohol and get totally wasted, and then I'd feel like an adult!

 No. That boat came and went. I turned 18, I got very drunk, and still I didn't feel like an adult.

And the older I get, the more I do it. I look at people around me, and think 'when I get to that age, I'm sure I'll have it all figured out, like they have'. But have they?

That's exactly what I thought 25 would be like. I guess I was sort of expecting to wake up, and for everything to suddenly fall into place. I thought those stupid, embarrassing things that have a habit of happening to me would stop, and I could get on with my life and learn to appreciate cheese boards, listen to Radio 4 and know the difference between a freehold and leasehold.

Well, that didn't happen. It hasn't even come close to happening. And you know what? I actually think that's okay. It's perfectly fine to still enjoy the little perks you once did as a teenager, because frankly,  it makes life that little bit more fun. Who cares if I still eat a bowl of cereal for dinner, or a 12 pack of Tesco's own Yorkshire puddings. Who cares if I beg my Manager to take part in Children in Need just so I have an excuse to go to work in my pyjamas, and when I visit my parents, yes, I do still take a bag of laundry for my mum to wash and then proceed to raid the fridge. Is there anything really wrong with this?

Worst of all, I still have a god-awful habit of losing things when I'm drunk. I thought that doing the hungover 'handbag-check' in the morning would be less and less painful as I got older. Apparently not. Now that 'clutch' handbags have come into fashion, shops have made it ever easier for you to momentarily let go of your bag without the safety net of a giant strap slung round your shoulder to stop your bag, and the contents, from splaying out across the bar floor.

N.B When I was at University, I got into such a habit of losing my phone, I'd go out with it physically tied to the inside of my handbag (this tactic actually worked; if you lose things too, I'd strongly recommend).

But it does still happen, and it did happen. Last night. I went out last night for birthday drinks with some friends, got a little bit too merry, and ended up losing the worst things I could possibly lose in my handbag; the keys to my flat.

Me (centre) and friends from work

Think I was getting a bit tipsy by this point...

And so at 2am, my Landlord ( who looks remarkably like the man who presents BBC's Countryfile), was woken from what was probably a very peaceful sleep about badgers and milking cows to a slurring 25 year old with wine stains on her dress and red lipstick on her teeth, banging on his door, apologising profusely for losing her keys and begging him to use his master key to let her in. He came down from his flat upstairs in his dressing gown and slippers, shaking his fist, muttering words like 'youngsters' and 'should have a bleeding spare key' and let me in.

And I thought that was that. I had spare keys sat on my lounge windowsill, behind the cordless house phone that I only use to ring my mobile when I've lost it, so I'd use those from now on.

Except that wasn't it. My electricity in on a meter, and you have to top it up at a shop using a little key fob. That key fob happened to be attached to my lost keys. When I realised this morning that I had no key fob, I checked to see how much electricity I had left on my meter. £2.06. Which, on an average day in Winter, would last one, maybe two days.

I rang Southern Electrics to request a new key fob, only to get an answer phone message asking to call back in office hours Monday to Friday. It's Saturday today. So the possibility of me running out of electricity completely before I could even request another key fob was extremely high, and I'd probably have to have ice cream and fish fingers for breakfast when everything from my freezer slowly defrosts.

So, with my new found adulthood, I did the only thing I could think of that would be remotely useful. I went to Primark and spent £15 on candles.

So as I'm writing this blog post, I'm trying to save what little electricity I have left, am surrounded by no less than 20 candles, and my lounge smells like the inside of a fortune teller's boudoir.

So, I wish I could tell you that as you get older you figure it all out, but in my experience, you don't. You may get a better job, you may figure out what career path you want to be on, heck, you may even get into a routine of going to the gym and bragging about how many spin classes you do a week (I go to 3, heh. Get me). But you never really 'grow up'. There'll always be a part of your youthful self that you won't be able to shake, whether that will be your addiction to the Pokemon Red and Blue on your Gameboy Colour, buying a Kinder Egg just for the toy inside, or sitting down to watch the film Elf at Christmas.

And frankly, who would want to fully grow up, when you could get slippers like this for your 25th birthday and look like you have tiny rabbits hugging your feet all day long. Who doesn't want rabbit hugs?!

The comfiest, cutest slippers in the world.

Update: On Monday morning, I rang Southern Electrics, and they said they'd get a new electrics key fob delivered to my flat ASAP. And then I remembered the key to my post box was on the keys I lost on Friday...

Buggar it.


Second update: Last night, on Wednesday, I got in from the gym at about 8.45pm and my electricity had completely gone. No lights, no heat, no fridge - nothing. This wouldn't have been a problem, if I didn't have to charge my phone to make sure I had a way of waking up in the morning. My phone was at 38% battery, and is one of those phones that has a habit of losing battery simply by you looking at it. I tried calling my friends who lived nearby, but they were either out for dinner, or still at work, or not answering (phone now at 32%). So I stumbled through to my lounge, lit one of the many candles I had scattered on my table, and sat in the dark wondering what to do, being calmed ever so slightly by the aroma of winter berries.

Would one of my neighbours electricity key fobs work? Firstly, I wasn't sure if asking them would be a good call - the people who live directly around me aren't what you'd call normal residents (the one next to me is scared of people (no, really), and another nearby resident I have named 'Poo Man', for obvious reasons). Secondly, I had a gut feeling that each key fob was unique to its electricity meter.

I picked up a tea light and made my way through the bedroom, feeling like I belonged in a Charles Dickens novel and should be wearing a nightcap and slippers, and found my charger plugged in beside my bed. I stuffed it inside my coat pocket, blew out the candle, and headed back out to the main corridor.

I found a plug socket in the main corridor, near where the back door is to take out rubbish, plugged in my phone, realised I couldn't really leave it alone for an hour in a building with 60 different flats in, and so sat down on the scratchy carpet, and waited.

I had many strange looks last night. After the third time of explaining exactly why I was on the floor, I started changing the story a bit, to see what reaction I'd get.

"Lost my key fob, just charging my phone quickly, yes, yes I have already called Southern Electrics..."
"No electricity - just charging my phone!"
"No electricity, because I can't afford to pay my bills!"
"I don't even live here."
"This isn't even my phone, I just like the carpet."

An hour later, at around 10pm, my battery was nearing the top (89%), when who should walk past but the caretaker of my building, Mr Countryfile himself. He asked what flat I lived in. I sheepishly muttered '55', and I watched cogs turn in his head.

"Flat 55... 55 you say? Wait, that was you on Friday night? YOU woke me up at bleeding 2 in the morning to let you in? Why you little-"

He calmed down, eventually, after explaining my electricity situation, and I asked him about what to do about my lost pox box key. He said he had a master key and would check my post for me, and get me some new keys cut later in the week, and 'don't you dare lose these ones too!'

A few minutes later he came back with a single letter, what I assumed to be a bill. I said thanks, slumped back on the floor, and checked my phone. 91%.

Then I opened the letter, and what was there? My electricity key fob. I'd asked Southern Electrics to deliver it to my work address, because I had no access to my postbox at my flat, and they'd said yes and asked for the new delivery address, but they sent it here! It could have been sat there for days and I'd have had no idea.

But here it was, in my hand. With the smile across my face, anyone would think that I'd won the lottery. I sprinted back to my flat, registered the key fob with the meter like a re-union of a long lost brother and sister, and ran out the building and down the road to top up my electricity.

The corner shop near me that has the PayPoint where I buy electricity is a few minutes walk from my flat, in an area called the Triangle. Each time I go into this shop, the person serving me is always different, and always under 19 with various teeth missing; the sort of people who no matter how many times you explain it to them, will never be able to grasp the concept of 'there, their and they're'. Last night, there were two teenage girls, chewing gum, their hair scraped back into a messy pony tail on top of their head, reading a text aloud from one of their phones. They looked up at the counter, saw me standing there, and then looked back down to their phones.

"Oh my gahhd, I can't believe Ricky just said that? What did you say back babe?"

"He hem!" I said, clearing my throat.

"Soz, can you just wait a minu'e?" She turned back to her friend and pointed at her mobile. "I really can't believe that Chelsea, what did you say back? Don't take any shit from him, he's obviously lying about the baby, why don't yo-"

I hadn't waited 5 days to get electricity to stand and listen to the chavvy Olsen twins talking about fucking Ricky and a frigging baby. I put the key fob on the counter, got out my debit card, and said:

"£20 on here please, I'm in a hurry. Thanks."

She stashed her phone back into her pocket, snatched the key fob off the counter and started punching numbers into the till with her long, acrylic nails, her gaze not leaving mine as she did it. Stare at me all you want, but you're making me wait to get heating back, and for that, I hate you. And your hair looks bloody ridiculous, too.

Five minutes later, I was back in my flat, plugged the key fob into my meter, and a glorious '£19.96' flashed on the screen. I laughed out loud, shouted 'Pippin! Pippy! We have light!', and turned on every light and every heater in the house, just because I could.

And then turned most of them off, because, well. Saving electricity and all that.

Moral of the story: don't wear your hair in a messy bun on top of your head, you look stupid. Oh, and don't lose your keys. Yeah, that too.