My cat doesn’t watch television. How stupid is that! I mean it’s the moving picture I spent my childhood with and grown to love like a mother. I’m not concerned about the content, I just need to know she’s there for me. Test card, fish tank, I don’t mind. Most of what I watch was made before I was born anyway in a far away country founded by disaffected puritans who couldn’t cope with English eccentricity. Compare for a moment good old American Apple pie with the English variety filled with singing blackbirds. But mum is apple pie, totally sweet and undemanding, endless fun to eat and eat.
So there I will be, 30 years on still watching Friends. Jennifer Anniston has grandchildren, Joey’s gone to HIV, Chandler’s retired as VP of Weeners and Monica’s put all that weight back on. So sad. But I’m fine. I’ve forgotten how to tie my shoelaces but that’s OK, I can’t get up anyway. And the cat’s leart to play the piano.
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