Pressing On...

Ironing is the only excuse for day-time telly. I can feel your mocking eyebrow as I write. It's the ironing, isn't it? I am the only one left on the planet, apart from a Mrs Williams of Cardiff, to be ironing. No, I have never bought non-iron shirts. Let's just say, I have a discerning husband whose taste in shirts ensures my lifelong enslavement to the ironing board. But there's no whiff of burning martyr because my habit ensures I get to watch crap-TV.

Now, I could expand my horizons and increase my general knowledge by listening to Radio 4. But no. I prefer to stick my head in a bubble of trite nonsensical drama which is as far removed from my life as possible. I have emptied the laundry basket this week in an attempt to catch up with The Gifted. No, I don't recommend it, unless you too are grappling with that really tricky bit around a double cuff. It's the only show that will semaphore its story and where the special effects reduce the need for acting of any quality.

The other time you may need daytime TV is when you are ailing. A friend cried off on me today because she was suffering from the sneezles and wheezles. The only consolation, she told me, was that she was tucked up with The Crown on Netflix. I was, of course duly sympathetic. But it did put me in mind of the woman who went to the Doctor because every time she sneezed she had an orgasm.
"What are you taking for it?" he asked.
"Pepper," she replied.
Now you didn't see that one coming, did you?