Babysitting-Induced Stockholm Syndrome

The nightmare has come true. I just sang along with Hilary Duff. The niece is round, so Hilary is a vast improvement on Miley Freakshow Cyrus, who I actually hate far more than I ought, given I don't know her. Of course, Hilary is not quite as good as High School Musical, largely due to the absence of the laugh-a-minute that is Zac Efron. Watching Mr Efron valiantly attempt to act, sing and dance when it is painfully clear none of the above come naturally to him, combined with making a bash at appearing sexy (in the wholesome Disney way) is simply one of the most entertaining things committed to film in the last century or so. Excellent. My older brother, the niece's father, lumps Efron with the vile Cyrus, a gross offence to Zac. "They're both awful," he says, which is true, but Cyrus is just a nasty little piece of work whereas Zac seems okay, or at least not driven by a mad desire to be the most popular kid in the schoolyard, which seems to be Miley's weird ambition. Also, no one who unironically wears that haircut can be all bad.

This isn't right. I appear to be gradually accepting the next generation's tripe. I haven't even reconciled myself to MY generation's tripe yet.