I listened to The Postman Always Rings Twice this afternoon.
I caught the end of Any Answers which, for anyone who has never listened to Radio 4 on a Saturday, is where all the batshit crazy people go because You And Yours isn’t on at the weekend. Any Answers is the companion show to Any Questions which is like Question Time but not on the television and you can’t see the crazies asking the questions or – for that matter – the crazies answering the questions. Then with Any Answers the general public is allowed their say which usually leads to an hour of that sort of casual racism you get in the posher places amongst a certain age group and the presenters have to say things like, “Well, I think I’ll stop you there…” when stuff gets a little too near the knuckle.
And then it was the Afternoon Play – The Postman Always Rings Twice. Two lovers conspire to do away with her husband with all sorts of dramatic consequences.
I listened to it up until the point where they’d just clocked the husband in the head while he was in the bath but then, unexpectedly, a cat (having climbed a stepladder designed for the escape of the husband-bashing wife) had accidentally fried itself on a fuse box which caused a blackout and through all their plans into disarray.
And then I fell asleep.
Because when I woke up there was someone on Weekend Woman’s Hour talking about the lack of women cycling in London and what can be done to increase the numbers of ladies on bikes whilst also stressing how likely people are to die on bikes in London.
Which I don’t think was part of the play about doing in your husband so you could run off with an American man who sounded a bit like John Barrowman but wasn’t John Barrowman.
I think the thing that upsets me the most is not that I missed the second half of the play, or that I woke up being exposed to Woman’s Hour (although sadly not the usual mix of strongly presented feminism interspersed with recipes to impress your man). No, it’s more the fact that I’ve reached the age where I’ll just nod off sitting on the couch for no real reason.
I mean, sure, I’ve had afternoon naps before. Who hasn’t? But they were anticipated naps. They were naps in which I went and lay in or on the bed and “read a book” which – as everyone knows – is code for slept for a few hours before getting up and pretending you were never asleep.
But I have never just nodded off while sitting on the couch.
That’s something reserved for the domain of my parents. The post-lunch nap, where you find your parental units slumped in an armchair fast asleep or “just resting their eyes”, is not for the likes of me. I’m young and vibrant. I have my whole life ahead of me.
I don’t like it.