It's around 8:54pm on Sunday night. I've just rage quit Mass Effect 2 because, quite frankly, I shouldn't be fighting the Quarian race's intergalactic battles for them. I throw the control through my television screen and take out my trusty phone, Sheeba, and open Twitter. I like to do this because it gives me a nice anger-come-down, and quick. (Or, 'ACDC'.) I'm scrolling through the inane ramblings of my collection of complete strangers that I've become quite attached to over the years, like a digital, password-protected security blanket, if you will. Then it happens. The deeply buried unresolved issues from my childhood that involved a twice-daily beating of disappointment to my mushy developing mind. (A few years later it would be my discovery of stick mags and alcohol that would would do most of the damage to my brain.) I believe you'll all know the feeling to which I refer to very well. It is of course, the Arch Window from Playschool.
It's not that I have anything against the plain-Jane round window or the ordinary-as-a-box-of-shaven-Indian-ritual-plaits square window. But the arch window always seemed to be the most elegant. The most poised. The most... arched.
I'd sit there in front of my beige, 16 inch Palsonic TV and beg the camera to zoom through that window and show me a world of intrigue and mystery the likes of which hadn't been seen since Lucy and Ethel sold their living room set to a shady street-peddler and tried to hide it from Ricky. And when It wouldn't happen, when they'd go through one of the other two windows, my little heart would break. I'd refuse to show any interest in the ponies doing dressage with little ribbons on their tails, or the re-enactment of the moon-landing. I'd just sit there on the carpet making little arch windows out of Play-Doh and hold them up to my eye. Which really wasn't the same. Tasty though.
The heartache wouldn't stop. As if taking pleasure in the breaking of children's hearts, the evil producers of Playschool would continue their reign of terror through to story time. And the dreaded Flower Clock.
I guess this was some sick way of convincing kids that becoming an astronaut and flying in a rocket, as the fan favourite and original of the clocks, the Rocket Clock seemed to suggest. No, they wanted to steer children into the more attainable career of "horticulturist", or "floral clock designer". Well I can assure you, ABC Kids, I will NOT fall for your little mind games! I will continue on the career path that I have chosen! I will reach for the stars and live my dreams! I will become a horticulturist! Wait...what? Oh.