In which the Domestic Daemon discovers that idleness is a full-time occupation

After an absence of almost a year, I have decided that the world has been deprived of my wisdom for quite long enough.

The Domestic Daemon has returned.

I am currently enjoying some annual leave from my night job, which means I have considerably more time than usual to devote to doing absolutely nothing.

You might imagine that idleness is a restful occupation.

You would be wrong.

Being bone idle is utterly exhausting.

There is the question of how to fill the hours, for a start. One cannot simply sit about doing nothing without giving the matter some serious thought.

I briefly considered housework, but dismissed the idea on the grounds that I am on holiday and ought not to overexert myself.

Writing seemed a much more civilised alternative.

Fortunately, daytime television provides an excellent framework around which to organise one’s inactivity.

Allow me to take you through a typical day.

8 a.m. — Tea and human misery

The day begins in bed with a cup of tea and The Jeremy Kyle Show.

There is nothing quite like starting one’s morning with other people’s domestic catastrophes. Infidelity, family feuds, accusations, recriminations and the occasional spectacular failure of human judgement.

It is rather like Jerry Springer, only with a slightly more respectable suit and a pretence of psychological analysis.

By the time I finish my tea, I am already feeling considerably better about my own life.

9–11 a.m. — The appearance of industry

These two hours are generally devoted to breakfast and looking busy.

I am remarkably good at looking busy.

Occasionally, I even do a little tidying or hoovering, largely because we have recently acquired a new vacuum cleaner.

I have a weakness for machinery, and a new household appliance can hold my attention for several days.

Unfortunately, the novelty eventually wears off, leaving one with the unpleasant realisation that the machine still expects to be operated.

I continue my search for the ultimate cleaning device: one capable of keeping the house spotless without ever having to leave the cupboard.

The Long-Suffering Husband informs me that such devices are called servants.

Apparently, however, they require feeding, wages and occasional time off.

I am looking for a self-supporting model.

11 a.m. — Emotional exercise

Army Wives.

Always good for a cry.

I consider this a perfectly legitimate form of exercise. One must keep the tear ducts in working order.

Noon — The Dog Whisperer

Time for Cesar Millan.

I am not entirely sure whether I watch the programme for the dog training or for Mr Millan himself.

He is rather dishy.

Does anyone know where I can get one?

A Cesar, I mean. Not a dog.

1 p.m. — Things that go bump in the afternoon

Next comes a Swedish programme called Det okända, or The Unknown, which we refer to in our household as The Spooky Show.

Mediums visit people’s houses and attempt to persuade unwanted spirits to vacate the premises.

I cannot say it is my favourite programme, but it fills an hour rather nicely.

And I suppose it is reassuring to know that if the house ever develops a supernatural infestation, there are people willing to come round and have a stern word with it.

Personally, I would prefer someone who could deal with the dust.

2 p.m. — The Good Wife

Now this is proper television.

A legal drama populated almost entirely by people I would cross the street to avoid.

Peter is thoroughly unpleasant, Alicia has the emotional warmth of a refrigerated haddock, her colleagues are scheming bastards and the children seem to have been included largely for decorative purposes.

I love it.

There is something immensely satisfying about a television series in which one is under no obligation to like anybody.

3 p.m. — Domestic reassurance

How Clean Is Your House?

This is perhaps the most important programme of the entire day.

There is nothing quite so comforting as watching somebody else’s home being excavated from beneath several years of accumulated filth.

My own house is untidy. I freely admit it.

There are things lying about that ought to be put away, surfaces that would benefit from a polish and corners into which I prefer not to look too closely.

But compared with some of the homes featured on this programme, mine is Buckingham Palace.

I watch with mounting satisfaction.

I am not a failure as a housewife.

I am practically a domestic goddess.

4 p.m. — Wife Swap

And now, having established that my house is a palace, I can spend another hour confirming that my marriage is a triumph.

What possesses people to volunteer for Wife Swap?

Do they genuinely believe that their particular method of running a household is so superior that another family will be transformed simply by being exposed to it?

The participants invariably arrive with an impressive collection of rules, principles and opinions, most of which are guaranteed to offend somebody within the first fifteen minutes.

I find the whole thing fascinating.

It is also deeply reassuring.

Whatever my shortcomings, I have never felt the need to enter a stranger’s home and reorganise their lives for the benefit of a television audience.

I prefer to do that sort of thing privately.

5 p.m. — Culture at last

Antiques Roadshow.

After a day spent wallowing in other people’s misfortunes, questionable housekeeping and marital disagreements, I can finally consider myself a cultured and intellectually accomplished woman.

I have learnt about eighteenth-century furniture, Victorian silver and the astonishing value of objects that have been gathering dust in somebody’s attic.

Admittedly, I have also spent the entire day in front of the television.

But surely education is education, wherever one acquires it.

And so another exhausting day draws to a close.

I have studied human behaviour, considered the mysteries of the supernatural, investigated domestic hygiene, explored the complexities of marriage and broadened my knowledge of the decorative arts.

I have even contemplated doing some housework.

Frankly, I think I deserve a rest.

Being bone idle is hard work.

And tomorrow, I shall have to do it all over again.