Every morning on my way to work, I listen to the radio and I channel-hop from station to station in the hope of coming across a decent song to keep me company.
Radio 2 is my default station and in the mornings it’s the Wake up to Wogan show. If I can tolerate his twitterings for long enough, I might catch the odd decent song and more often that not, it will be a mellow Katie Melua number. Alas, too many random Anorak wearing Toggers who clearly have time on their hands and no traffic to be congested in persist in contacting the show to send him their Togisms (yes, such is his celebrity status that he is now among the ism elite) and I lose patience and switch over. Even his famous double entendres have become tiresome for me.
My second stop, and it’s usually another very quick stop, is Radio 1. The gravelly voice of Chris Whassiface in the mornings really doesn’t do it for me. In fact, he irritates me more that Terry’s twitterings. So, Radio 1 doesn’t last long either. I have high standards to maintain.
My next stop is a local station that would actually be half decent if it weren’t for the millions of ads that interrupt the programme. Oh, and those stupid crank phone calls they insist on making every damn morning to supposedly unsuspecting members of the public who have been set up by a so-called friend. I can remember a time so-long-ago when I would find such pranks hilarious. That was the time when I would only ever listen to radio 1 because all the other BBC radio stations were fossil channels. These days, I only listen to it when the kids are in the car because they call me an old boot if I have the likes of Radio 4 on.
So, I guess we’ve established that the morning radio annoys me and I grumble and mumble all the way to work, asking myself why on earth I just don’t switch the damn thing off.
But the other night, my key broke in the lock of my car so I couldn’t lock the door. And lordy! Those gods-of-mean-things just don’t miss a chance do they. Now, the source of my irritation – my radio – is gone forever after being stolen in the moonlight by a car-radio stealer who is probably feeling pretty psht-off because the radio is rubbish and is of no use to anyone else because it won’t fit into any other car.
And, being the contrary mare that I am, I miss it. What can I blame my grumpy morning moods on now?