Friday, March 12, 2004
Lately I've been listening more and more to the radio. Proper radio, that is, radio with joined-up words rather then the catatonic caterwauling of some pimpled and pre-pubescent Pop Idol reject. Radio as in Radio Four, in fact. Is there any other? For me it’s one of the best things about the BBC. Well, that and a stripped-to-the-waist Dennis from EastEnders.
As ever, the Today programme wakes me up at six, with commentators whose voices all manage somehow to sound the same, but come across far more believable and authoritative than their plastic-perfect Tellyland counterparts, all capped teeth and Princess Di hairdos.
But now I'm also following the rest of the cosily predictable schedules: thoughts for the day and afternoon plays, women's hours and gardeners' questions, arts reviews and foreign correspondences, until I reach my book at bedtime. And then it's the land-lubbers' lullaby of the Shipping Forecast, its nightly litany of occasional gales (veering south-west) and squally showers (moderate then good) way more effective at sending me to sleep than vodka or valerian could ever be.
You might be thinking I'm living in a comfortable and genteel Middle-England world of cricket and crumpets, where Auntie is always on hand with the cucumber sandwiches, and Nicholas Parsons is my quizmaster god. (He actually is, but that's beside the point.)
So let me just point out that yesterday evening they had their very first audible and sloppy same-sex snog down Ambridge way.
Heavens. Homos in the haylofts. Looks like I've started tuning in just in time.