Tuesday, November 23, 2004

I'm having one of those ought-to-do-more days; you know. I've got a fair amount to do and can't quite light the pilot light.

And I shouldn't admit that I've put the washing on and I'm watching Trisha . It's like junk food - you know it's bad for you, but you kinda find yourself doing it anyway.

I feel like some kind of social voyeur. It's the adverts, and I might have to go in a minute. Trisha is about to reunite Patricia with her brother Graham, who she's not seen for 25 years. Pauline's crying like a baby: I shouldn't be watching this.

They've just welcomed Graham and she's bawling again. Which is her complete right, but we shouldn't be watching. And now Patricia's told Graham that their mum died two months ago. He's crying.

I'm crying now. Now they're bringing on Wendy , her sister who she's not seen for 45 years. The whole audience is crying.

This is wrong. It's private. Just like I don't want to see Ken Bigley or Margaret Hassan begging for their lives, I don't want to see this. There's a level of emotion that's for families and close friends, it's not for national TV ratings or selling newspapers.

Maybe deep down we need these deep-emotion hits. It's like watching a car crash. The adrenaline reminds us we're alive in an increasingly numb world. But it's still wrong.

But I did watch it to the end.

Must take my washing out now.

And do some work. Maybe.

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