Oh hello, what's this? A new television channel? That heralds another quest to reprogram my litle black box and reveal the latest source of boredom dellivered in high definition digital bliss. We often say how odd it is that with hundreds of new channels to watch, there's hundreds less to be interested in.

As to what channel is now included in my daily browsing session, I can't say, because I haven't found it yet. I did stumble on that dating channel again. Shall I? Shan't I? Oh go on then. Have a peruse. Let's see... Women seeking men... Aha. Here we go. Cardiff.... Cardiff.... Cardiff...

Maybe it's just me, but there seems to be a pattern here. For some reason Cardiff appears to be the loneliest place in southwest Britain. I wonder why? Was that new television channel an interactive Lonely Sheep Channel?

Come to think of it, why hasn't some current-affairs program cottoned on to the emotional desert that is South Wales? By now some guy in a suit should be standing in front of a camera with a microphone, giving us the shock headline on evening news. Perhaps the problem is that we're all getting used to bad news.

Take council cuts. Only eighteen people in Swindon responded to an initiative aimed at obtaining feedback and public opinion about forthcoming cuts in services, a figure so low it made the headlines of the local paper. What did they expect? Ever since the government were voted in they've been telling us that cuts are necessary and how tough it's going to be for all of us.

The problem is this is Wiltshire, not Wales, so all we can expect is an interactive Lonely Cow Channel.

My Very Own Big Brother

Romance is in the air. Not for me of course, I'm the old fogey upstairs, but outside in the back yard the worlds love affairs are being presented as nightly plays. Shakespeare said that all the world's a stage, and we're all actors upon it. He wasn't wrong.

One of my neighbours is a somewhat highly strung young lady. Almost every other day, she rages at her impressively resilient boyfriend. Doors are slammed, ears are bent, bottoms are savaged, and it goes on for hours. That's not an exaggeration.

It isn't just the drama of domestic politics. A few nights ago someone blew a kiss loudly enough for me to hear in my semi-comatosed state. I have no idea who the receipient was. If it was me, you'd think the young lady concerned would think of ringing my doorbell. Or would that cause an argument? But nice of her anyway.

Again, the next night, the ever-turbulent course of love made itself known. "I hate you... I hate you... I hate you..." said some female android outside in the yard, programmed by nature to ensure her message was received despite any neanderthal tendencies in her preferred boyfriends.

Why on earth I'd want to sit through endless hours of Big Brother when I can get the same entertainment on my own doorstep I'll never know.

Mating Call

Rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-eee-eee-eee-rrr-rrr-rrr-eee-eee-eee

Ah yes. The roar and squeals of the Wiltshire Rainforest after dark. The mating call of the Lesser Spotted Joyrider. Round and round he went last night, gyrating in circles in the yard behind my home, displaying his captured prey in an effort to secure mating rights among the pack, and who knows, impress the disappointed girl I heard the other night?

Rrr-rrrr-rrrr-eee-eee-eee-crunch.....

Oh dear. No sex for you then.

Urges

According to my stars, my life is about to go through changes. What? Again? I thought I'd finished with that sort of stuff when I was a teenager. This time the prediction is that I will rediscover love. I might even fall in love with the idea of love, they tell me. To be honest, I'd actually like to rediscover sex instead, but beggars can't be choosers.

That said, so far I haven't felt any urge whatsoever to buy flowers for the nearest pretty girl. There's a more powerful urge that gets in the way before that and makes me walk with some discomfort. In my experience young women are often embarrasingly observant at times like these and sure enough the two attractive young ladies passed me by in hysterics.

Nope. Still no urge to buy flowers...