Torchwood, Norman Wisdom and a Bit of Jamie

I spent most of yesterday evening sitting on the couch like a slug and watching TV in between playing with the new PC and finding out some of what Vista can do. (quite a lot as it turns out, and very elegantly, but sometimes the speed of my typing causes it to throw a bit of a wobbly) so here's a little TV review.
Torchwood is back - I never quite got into it the way I got into wonderful Doctor Who, but this new series seemed watchable, and entertaining, if only for the sight of Buffy's Spike (for whom I must confess I had a very soft spot in his previous vampire incarnation) dressed like an escapee from Pirates of The Caribbean, kissing Captain Jack. This lead me to a bit of mild speculation as to why it's OK for heterosexual men, and gays of either sex to incorporate their fantasies into their writing - and don't get me wrong - they often do it very well indeed! - but when us middle aged heterosexual women try to do it, we are roundly slated for being romantic or sentimental or both. This is not, incidentally a criticism of those who get away with it. More a plea that all of us should be allowed to do it and when we do it well, accorded the same leeway as the rest of you.
After that, and mainly because by that stage I couldn't bear to leave the fireside for the relative chill of the study, I watched a programme about an aged Norman Wisdom and his family's problems in finding suitable care for him. I found this a distasteful and exploitative little programme, masquerading as public service broadcasting - what do we do with our old folk? As one who sometimes feels that she is hurtling through life at twice the speed of light, it should have been interesting and thought provoking but it was simply undignified and embarrassing and depressing, and the most depressing thing about it was that his family had allowed it to be made at all.
It was, however, Jamie Oliver who eventually drove me back to the PC. Chickens are one thing, and I know we're all getting fatter, (especially while watching television in a wintry stupor) but sitting people in baths of oil while a scrawny doctor reduces them to tears by implying that they are going to DIE VERY SOON, all so that Jamie can be solicitous and offer a solution - well, it quickly became unwatchable. In fact curiously enough, while the programme about chickens would almost certainly have made people look at the alternative to the miserable battery farmed option, this week's offering probably had people rushing for the crisps and coke through sheer misery and panic. If the programme about Norman Wisdom was a wee knock, this was full on car crash television. Better by far to watch kissing time agents and get a vicarious thrill out of it. At least that may have given some of us an aerobic lift.

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