Clicking

Until recently we only had the five terrestrial TV channels. It was fine but occasionally the daughters would suggest that we enter the modern world of digital 'cos it's like living in the dark ages'. So we did.

On the day of installation we gazed at the new remote and began to click. Click, click click. I haven't stopped since.

There are would-be supermodels vying to become the Next Top Model of America/Britain/Uzbekistan. In one programme they were asked to jump from one leg to the other in front of a wind machine. The task proved arduous as arms and legs flailed and the wind looked in danger of blowing them back to Arkansas/Cleethorpes/Tashkent. Their eyes were wide with panic and they resembled baby giraffes struggling to find their feet. In Manolos.

We click on. Old UK sitcoms. US imports. We were mesmerized and still are.
You see, my mother always says that it doesn't matter how many channels you have, there is never anything on. But she is wrong. Oh, so wrong. There's always a House, an NCIS, a gentle old sitcom, Monk, a history programme. And the other morning I discovered Jeeves and Wooster at breakfast which goes perfectly with porridge.

We're still not HD'd, Blue Rayed, the thing where you can record or any of that. But this is progress enough. But I'm still guilty of hammering the clicker. One whiff of boredom and bam, move on. Funny how no one ever wants to watch TV with me. Or if they do, the clicker remains mysteriously hidden.