It seems that Britain is gripped just now, in a hushed silence, watching Eastenders to see who killed Archie someone-or-other. Those not interested have been banished to the kitchen with strict instructions to keep quiet and make no interruptions.
I do suspect the telephone networks have been switched off, too. Heaven help us if Mr Obama wants to speak to our dear Gordon just now, to warn him that the end of the world is nigh. As a nation, we don’t care. Just so long as it doesn’t happen before we find out who killed Archie.
Except that here in the little bungalow under the pines, disinterest reigns. We don’t do soaps, not since Bette left the Rovers and the secret of Michelle’s cushion was revealed.
So, I’ve flicked round the TV channels twice. It looks as if all the non-Eastenders channels have given up the ghost and have selected the oldest of their junk repeats and the least interesting of their documentary offerings. They seem to have adopted the principle of giving in gracefully.
I’ve settled on a BBC Four docu-drama, purporting to tell all about Tchaikovsky’s women. Not an overly long programme, then.
