The LTLP sits upright in bed.

“What was that?” she demands.

“Felt like an earthquake,” I reply.

Despite living in a cottage that has been partially rebuilt by the Methodical Builder, I am not unduly alarmed. The experience is interesting and unusual, but I don’t think that it is the end of the world or the beginnings of a Russian nuclear attack. Everybody knows that the official advice should we be in danger of nuclear annihilation is to grab the nearest woman and make love to her vigorously, and I cannot believe that the Russians would be so heartless as to launch their plans at 1 a.m. when I am in bed with the LTLP.

Nevertheless I am a bit disappointed in the morning when there are not huge great cracks in the road that leads through the Village, and all essential services seem to be working tolerably. The BBC has set up a service whereby people who think it’s important to text that they heard a rumble then perhaps looked outside to see what was happening can do so, their texts being displayed upon a special web page. This seems an excellent idea to stop such people breeding for five minutes or so. But otherwise the country seems to be functioning normally.

As a child I remember being strangely disappointed that Britain did not have earthquakes or floods or hurricanes like in places like South America; clearly as an adult my views have moved on from there. But South America does not have Strategic HR Initiatives or the Jeremy Kyle show, so who is to say which place is worse off?

I plan to walk to the Village Shop shortly; I shall be disappointed if the pork pies have not got through. We have not had such excitement round here for a long time. I will look forward to telling the Village Shop Man that I heard a rumbling noise – I will be annoyed if he trumps my story by having heard the rumbling noise AND looked outside.

I regret putting a TV in the bedroom.

I pull the duvet over my head, but nothing changes, except that I have a duvet over my head. I turn over and try to ignore the luminous freaks as they dance about making infantile noises.

“David Jason must really be embarrassed by this now,” I mutter, provocatively.

“What? What?” demands the LTLP from the other side of the bed.

“Mmmmphhh,” I reply, closing my eyes once more.

“What did you just say?”

Three minutes later I am left to reflect in bemusement how a woman who is gullible enough to believe that three of the Teletubbies are played by David Jason, Ross Kemp and Sir John Mills can be so shrewd when it comes to, say, accepting my estimate as to when I might be home from the Village Pub.

“The other one’s played by an unknown,” I mumble reassuringly.

I have been watching a lot of children’s television recently. The thing that you come to realise is that it is either very good or very crap. There is a locked find-and-replace template that they use for many shows that goes ‘Previously normal character develops unexpected different character trait’/’Different character trait makes them happy for a while’/’Different character trait makes them unhappy’/’They learn that they should just be happy as they are as everybody likes them and everything is wonderful’. Sometimes you long for, say, Spud the Scarecrow to have an irreversible sex change, or to find work in an administrative capacity and say ‘actually, Bob – the pay’s better and I get to piss around playing solitaire on the PC all day’.

Many of the presenters love it, dancing around with their puppets and brightly-coloured hats. My favourite occupation is to look intently for the fleeting dark shadow that betrays the fact that they are dying inside and have realised that they are never going to be asked to do Hamlet. I also dance around with puppets and brightly-coloured hats, but it is in the privacy of my own home, so that is all right.

“They just do the voiceovers, though, don’t they?” she interjects, five minutes later.

“No – they’re inside the costumes. Otherwise it’s pretty well impossible to synch the sound.”

“Oh.”