Sometimes I try to stop:
‘It makes you feel bad, Laura. Run a bath, Laura. Come on, there’s enough on your plate, Laura – you shouldn’t have to stomach Syed’s shame’. His great, complex mezze of shame.
But it stacks up! On the recordy box! And you can’t delete something that hasn’t been VIEWED – that goes against everything the recordy box stands for. Oh, I moan my way through these episodes. I let them whinny on in the background while I clean the oven, or I catch them on the fly – in between plucking my chin hairs and popping to Morrisons – you know, to make the 30 minutes somehow smaller.
As though I’m not really watching it. But I am.
Yusef’s soft, serial killer tones make my chest tighten.
Phil’s disappointment with his gay son makes my eyes roll into the back of my head.
Zainab’s barking makes me wish the overdose had worked.
Fatboy’s ill-informed slang makes me look around to check no one else is watching.
Ian’s romantic endeavours – I cannot bear even to think of them.
But Michael’s twitchy smiles. I would sit through nineteen of Zainab’s shouty curry-stirring sessions for just one of Michael’s twitchy smiles.
I still watch Eastenders. I’m sorry. I’m not sorry. I don’t know. I wish I’d never met it.
