I am struck down with the flu.

This would be bad enough as it is. However a side-effect seems to be that I have totally and utterly lost my voice. I honestly thought complete laryngitis only happened to people in 1970s situation comedies, but here I am, totally without speech, croaking like a Suffolk turkey.

It happened just like that, a consequence of prolonged bouts of coughing. On Thursday I was crossly informing an important business contact that she would have to call me back as I’d just finished cooking my faggots; on Friday I had a voice but an achey and unauthoritative one; now I am as silent as Stephen Hawking in a power cut. It is immensely frustrating.

I popped round to Short Tony’s, but the conversation was unrewarding; I cannot even say things like ‘because I tell you to’ to the Baby, and I had to mime in the Village Shop.

The LTLP has flu as well, although she has not lost her voice as there is no God. It is all a bit of a worry when you have a little Baby to look after. Both of our families live outside Norfolk, in the sticks, so we do not have them to call on for support in such a time.

Of all the Baby-related things that I have had to consider (which nursery should she attend/what injections should she have/should I have her circumcised etc), the idea of moving house to be nearer family simply didn’t occur to me. It would be useful in many ways.

These are the feverish thoughts that race through the mind of a delirious sick person, as he lies on the couch in front of a non-working TV. I console myself that when I am better I will be able to pretend that they did not occur to me at all.

There is still no TV!!!

I stare at the thing moodily. I get some sound on BBC1, and ITV gives you a wavy sort of drug-induced ITV behind the snow, but that’s it. No TV. There is no TV. TV there is none.

I clench my fists in frustration.

I do not even watch much TV. But in the TV-less situation it suddenly becomes the object of crazed desire. I want to watch Heartbeat!!! I need to see a plasticky-faced woman fronting a rigged quiz game!!! Tonight with Trevor McDonald!!! Trevor, I need you!!!

Not EastEnders, though.

A beep signifies a text message. It is Mrs Short Tony inviting us round to watch ‘Midsomer Murders’.

I do not need her pity-fucks.

The statistics are as follows. Of all aerial people in the vicinity, 25% are not answering their phones. Another 25% are answering their phones but telling you that there is no possibility of a mended aerial in the near future. A full 50% – yes 50% – have an answerphone message basically telling you to piss off and haven’t-you-heard-there-were-big-storms-the-other-week that broke lots of aerials and do not even bother trying to track me down because I am Not Interested, what do you think I am, a fucking aerial repair man?

I crack and telephone Rupert Murdoch. I do not get through but his people are helpful and will be arranging television for me as from next week.

That is it. I have sold out to an Evil Corporation.

Midsomer Murders is rubbish, even by the standards it sets for itself, which are rubbish standards from the University of Rubbish (formerly Rubbish Polytechnic). Mrs Big A arrives half way through, expecting Friday-night wine and lively conversation. She leaves ten minutes later.

“You’re all fucking sad,” she comments on her departure.