I'm not proud of it, but I just can't help myself. It's the Real Housewives of Orange County. I found them on a digital channel on a cold afternoon in London ('Cos those almost never happen) and now, every afternoon, I head for the living room, trying to look like I'm just passing through and looking for something to do. And just happen to find the same show, at the same time every day. But, then, so is Mum. She's equally obsessed.
If you don't know what I'm on about, these are rich housewives who all look vaguely similar (ie blonde hair, fake tan, pumped up lips and plastic boobs, you know, like Barbie) and seem to spend a disproportionate amount of their time discussing whatever "drahmah" has got their designer knickers in a knot this week. There are constant discussions about whichever woman isn't there at the time, and they get offended by the slightest thing. To say they are high maintenance is an understatement. I think they are a little bit amazing.
Now, I'm pretty sure a week in Orange County would be my limit before I felt the need to poke someone in the eye out of sheer frustration. Or, you know, wear last season's dress to an event just to get them to shun me from their circle. But the first few days would be hilarious.
Wearing so many diamonds I couldn't lift my hands. Spending my days deep in discussion about my feelings and how so and so hurt them by breaking a nail at a brunch I organised. Going everywhere in a stretch limo because taxis are so last week. Being a total stirrer and having that be completely normal. Yeah, that'd be fun, for a little while.
And, somewhere, there would be a mother and daughter, sitting in their suburban living room, rolling their eyes and wondering if people really live like that.