I took to humming last week.Not the usual dirges that are necessary to keep the skull-headed gorilla safely ensconced in my bedroom cupboard but, instead, a chirpy tune, lacking in melody but delivered with considerable oomph.
The reason? A couple of colleagues were loudly dissecting the final few episodes of Breaking Bad and my spoiler alert defences had kicked in.
See, I have only reached the foothills of Season Three (jealous much?) having found the series via a subscription to Netflix.
Currently I am lukewarm on Breaking Bad (there is too much bickering). However I am entirely enamoured of Netflix, delivered to my big screen via Apple TV.
Too many American series (of which I am a huge fan) have passed me by of late. Or they have bobbed and weaved around the schedules with any number of seasons running concurrently.
On a terrestrial station someone is inevitably resurrected having died a death on satellite only an hour before.
Netflix allows me to start again from scratch, helping my disorganised brain by starting each time where I left off. So don't talk to me of Damages, Battlestar Galactica, 24, Nurse Jackie, Prison Break...
Personal scheduling is to TV what iTunes is to music. It's saviour and nemesis.
Little wonder then, that the Radio Times is going so wildly overboard on its 90th anniversary, 10 short of a more meaningful milestone.
It feels more like a last hoorah as the RT acknowledges that, in 10 years, the landscape of TV scheduling and print publications will have changed beyond recognition.
