By the time the film restarted, all hope had disappeared

It has become my firm belief that, as a stranger in this land, it is absolutely vital to watch television in order to understand mainstream values of my new home. Not because the programmes are particularly good, you understand, but because of the commercial breaks (of which there are many). The average commercial break shows the full span of a wholesome, American life - from teenage years whining about cell phone coverage, through dating services to find the perfect partner, onto suburban parental bliss as the proud owner of a SUV and life insurance policy, and finally incontinence pants and Viagra. The American Dream in two minutes.

I have just seen an advert for a charity that makes makes wishes come true for children with physical disabilities. Jim'll Fix It for the sickly. One teenager who suffers from cystic fibrosis tells of how this charity made her dream come true. What was this wildest dream, this deepest wish, this spiritual zenith of a young and troubled life? A day trip to a shopping mall. I found her choice of ultimate ambition depressing in the same way that I find millionaire lottery-winning pensioners who opt to stay in their dingy Medway bungalow depressing.

I was well into the scotch by the time the film restarted.