T here are certain aspects of ageing that I find enchanting: the well-documented state of giving fewer f***s about the big things, which often seems to coincide with giving more f***s about various little things. These are my present, random, top three ..
. For decades I was convinced that the dum-ti-dum theme tune of The Archers communicated only one sad thing: “Youngsters be gone, this programme is for older folk to help while away the hours between breakfast porridge, and bedtime cocoa.” Now, suddenly, it’s the highlight of my day.
Thirteen minutes of pure, private radio joy — beautifully scheduled at 7pm to coincide with the opening of a cold beer. I relish the gloriously uneventful storylines of farming dilemmas and staffing problems in the tearoom, punctuated by precious periods of high drama involving repentant alcoholics, lusty teens and tragic miscarriages (of both justice and babies). Its plots are as varied as the seasons, its humour is rare, its regularity is grounding.
I had no idea something so old-ish could make me so happy-ish, and find myself resentful there is no episode on Saturday nights — presumably because the BBC assumes its audience is out at a rave. I’m not. I’m at home yearning for updates on my Ambridge companions.
.
