By Default

When we first arrived in Ireland, we didn't know whether we'd be staying beyond the first available flight home and so made a decision to buy as little as possible, especially in the way of electronics which couldn't be used overseas. We bought this computer that has served as our entertainment centre for the last three years. We watch movies, listen to music and keep in touch with family and friends through it.

We've moved house three times in the three years we've been here, for a number of reasons, not the least of which are the rapacious landlords of the Emerald Isle. The third and current house came with a television. At that point we had gone some eighteen months without tv. We chose not to hook it up. The kids complained a little; the video store did not.

And then it happened. The tv licence man came a knocking. A tv licence, for those of you not familiar with the concept, is a yearly tax that you pay for the privilege of owning a television, or in our case, simply having one on the property. These taxmen have power too. They can send your ass to court! We tried to reason with him, offered to show him the dusty thing to prove that it wasn't in use. No dice. We then said that we'd have the landlord remove it. Too late, said he. Pay the tax or go to jail in 21 days.

We spent about twenty days debating the pros and cons of life in an Irish jail. On day twenty one, we bought the stupid licence (one hundred and fifty five smackers for those of you who appreciate that sort of detail). Oddly, however, having a licence doesn't guarantee that you can actually watch your tv. Good money was thrown after bad in the search for a decent antenna. We managed to get two and a half stations with the antenna. And that was okay with me... I discovered blogs and eventually started this one. I even managed to convince hubby to start a family blog with me to chronicle our adventures on this side of the pond.

This Christmas, among the incredible mountain of loot that Santa deposited down our chimney came a subscription to Sky TV. The kids were ecstatic! 999 channels; something for everyone, wuhoo! Except, I can't get near the fucking thing. In the two weeks we've had it, I've managed to watch one episode of The Naked Chef and a pile of crap called Extreme Makeover, Home Edition.

The other evening, when the kids finally unglued themselves from Nickelodeon and went to bed, hubby suggested that I'd enjoy a program called CSI Miami. And I did. Until the first commercial break when he picked up the remote and clicked through all of the other 998 channels to see what we were missing. By the time we got back to CSI, it was another commercial break and I realized I had a decision to make.

I estimated the cost of having the remote surgically removed from hubby's rectum and then went back to blogging.