Notes On A Lack of Scandal

I'm comfortably listening to Radio 4. Suddenly I hear a demented but tooth-grindingly familiar melody. I drop my mug of coffee on the workstop where it will bounce a couple of times, and launch myself headlong at the radio, one arm stretched out ahead, to connect to the off button on the radio. All in slow motion of course - I sail through the air, a look of pain on my suddenly pale face, splashes of coffee gracefully ascending from the worktop, and there is a slowed-down shout of

Nooooo!

It's The Archers, of course, and if anyone else in Britain is anything like me then I'd imagine there must be a sudden drop in power usage on the national grid at that moment.

To be fair, it's really only the music that makes me want to take my own life; I'm merely apathetic about the programme itself. Shortly after finishing my last post with mention of Achilles quite incidentally hewing off someone's head with an arcing spray of spinal marrow, I happened to switch on the radio to hear some character sighing about yield quotas, and I thought:

My, we are easily pleased these days, aren't we?
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