As someone who works in a room in Canterbury where the television is almost permanently tuned to Sky News, I am exposed to a lot of commercials.
Obviously, it being Sky News the adverts are targeted at a particular audience. You won’t find ads for My Little Pony or Lego from people tuning in to find out the latest on Brexit or the state of the FTSE.
But the more of I saw of these things, the more I wondered about the kind of lives we are invited to think people live.
- Thousands bask in sunshine for City Sound Project in the Park
- VIDEO: Fascinating footage shows city nearly 100 years ago
And then I wondered how a day might actually pan out if I lived like the people in tv adverts…
Returning home to the Tannery, I find Carol “Rear of the Year” Vorderman waiting for me. She has a large cheque for £25,000 from the Postcode Lottery.
Feeling very pleased with myself, I immediately invest in gold bullion and sign up for Donksense, a charity which looks after asses suffering in the upper Andes.
The good deed done, I ask my wife to join me for a stroll along the beach in the wonderful late spring/early summer weather.
There we naturally discuss the cost of funeral arrangements for elderly relatives. “It’s only £50 a month,” she says ignoring the beautiful white cliffs behind her and the waves gently lapping at her feet.
Feeling hungry upon my return home, I reach for the pot of yogurt in my fridge and pour it into a bowl whereupon I theatrically sprinkle granola and raisins over it before twisting some gooey honey in. I take pictures and upload them to my half-dozen Instagram followers.
After lunch my elderly father comes round and notices that my four-year-old daughter is playing with her doll’s house.
This prompts him to outline to her the benefits of Aviva’s equity release scheme to free up some of the money tied up in his house. The child is delighted and begins dreaming of reaching his age.
A friend calls and reminds me that I’ve subscribed to the “Ladbroke’s life” whereby a gaggle of portly middle aged men do things like cheerily walk in a line down the road on the way to a betting shop.
I put a score on dog called Sausage John running at Romford. It comes in at 4-1 and I grab my winnings, spreading them out in my hand in front of me.
Then it’s down the Miller’s Arms for the guaranteed fun of a non-alcoholic lager before going back home.
We’re having a roast dinner with the grown up kids who have just returned from uni and that. The wife demonstrates her culinary talents by serving made gravy from Oxo cubes. Despite the presence of the family, this sparks a series of innuendos between us and allusions as to what might happen in the bedroom later.
There follow some shenanigans on a mattress which has been scientifically tested for its orthopaedic qualities.
It’s getting late and the wife and kids are now asleep. Hmm, I wonder if that attractive woman over the road is in. Good, she’s out.
I quickly nip down the 24-hour garage, put on black clothing, break in to her home and leave a £2.99 box of Milk Tray on her dresser with a card alluding to my identity.
Nothing weird about that and certainly not the sort of thing that’s going to get me in any trouble. In fact, I’d go as far to say there’s nothing weird about any of the activities I’ve just described…erm…