It really is that time of year. Shortly after Dancing on Ice's cheesily spectacular conclusion, Lark Rise has ground painfully to its inevitable end. "Nothing's changed!" exclaimed Dorcas, joyfully. Personally, after 10 weeks, I'm not sure that's anything particular to be proud of. I don't dislike Lark Rise, it sort of wore me down after awhile, my brain beaten into submission by the weekly doses of laudanum-like non-events. Sir Timothy and Dorcas' relationship, the only really interesting thing in it, was entirely preordained in its direction. But at least I've learned the great, gravitational importance of the post office and its Regulations.
Meanwhile, in the spirit of the circle of life, He Kills Coppers dragged itself up from the primeval swamps where it seemed to have been lurking, what with its relentlessly grey colour scheme. Rafe Spall, the slack-jawed wonder, is exquisitely suited to this somewhat seedy world. I rate him as an actor, and he really did convey the grimy atmosphere to almost disagreeable lengths. I felt in need of a shower and hairwash afterwards. In the first episode, I have learned that in the 60s even career gangsters wore ties. In the second, I anticipate I will learn that tarts have hearts too.
But who cares, because this week The Apprentice is back. Hallelujah! I just love, love, love watching those arrogant dicks getting owned by Alan Sugar. It simply never gets old.
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