I THINK I may be turning into my mother.
Although, saying that, my own mother is a ripped jeans-wearing, Crocs-loving 53-year-old who still shops at River Island and drives a convertible Mini.
So maybe I'm turning into someone else's mother. Or maybe I'm just getting old.
I think this because a number of things have happened recently that have made me realise I'm becoming a bit of a grumpy old woman.
The first time this occurred to me was watching the show of the same name, Grumpy Old Women, when realised I agreed with everything they said.
Some of my favourite annoyances they listed included counter assistants who say "Can you just sign this for me?"
You? Why would I sign it for you? I'm signing it because I want to withdraw some money, not as a personal favour for you!
Litterbugs, thongs sticking out of girls' jeans and cold callers (all personal bugbears of mine) also got a mention.
I was practically shaking my rolling pin and the TV in agreement.
But it's not just this that's made me realise I'm turning into a bit of an old moaner. Writing letters of complaint is another symptom.
It started one day when I noticed my brand new box of Special K was severely lacking in "red berries".
I'm sure you'll agree this is just not on. If I'd have wanted to eat a bowl of plain Special K that's what I would have bought.
And that's exactly what I told the customer services department of Kellogg's in my snootily-written email. It worked and a week later I received a £5 voucher through the post.
The next week I cut my finger while filing my nail with a Superdrug nail file and immediately fired off a letter to the company requesting my money back. They obliged. I believe it was my friend who told me to "get a life" that made me realise I was getting a bit carried away with this complaining malarkey.
But it's not just grumpiness that's making me think I'm turning into an old woman. Worryingly I also seem to have developed a habit of saving "quality" carrier bags and have developed a love of "pottering".
What's next? Puzzle books and polyester trousers from one of those magazines you get free with the Sunday papers?
I also seem to forget what I'm saying mid-sentence more often.
"That's what I meant to tell you . . ." I'll say to my boyfriend.
Then there'll be a pause while I try to remember what on earth I was so desperate to tell him.
"Never mind, it'll come back to me if I don't try to think of it," I seem to say a dozen times a day.
Then there's the habit of checking washing instructions on clothes before buying them, packing a cardigan "just in case" and keeping tissues in every coat pocket. All unmistakable signs, I'm sure you'll agree.
I'd better watch out - at this rate I'm destined to end up alone with my cats... and my collection of carrier bags
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