In my favourite episode of the BBC comedy series I’m Alan Partridge the lead character finding himself alone in his dismal travel tavern room, and, bored out of his mind, decides to amuse himself by dismantling his Corby trouser press. He then has to make an embarrassed phone call to reception when he finds he can’t put it back together again. I was laid low with a similarly extreme case of ennui in a hotel in London recently, but since there wasn’t a trouser press available I was forced into an even more desperate act.
I decided to watch Midsomer Murders, this year in its twentieth season.
