My dedication to watching woeful late-night TV is apparently a health hazard. Should society do more to cater to night owls?
In my (admittedly self-regarding) opinion, I do my very best living between the hours of 11pm and, say, 3am. That’s when my children have been confined to their beds and I have the relative freedom that allows me to consume television until my eyes start to sting. Essentially, I’m talking about repeated episodes of Bullseye (the original Jim Bowen incarnation, not the abhorrent Dave Spikey reboot), maybe some BBC4 music documentaries that I’ve already seen seven or eight times, or one of the 45 episodes of A Place in the Sun that are clogging up my Sky box.
Essentially nothing that represents challenging viewing, because I’m too done in to think properly by then – anything on Netflix feels like a chore, plus there’s the added time needed to scroll through endless menus, deciding on what to watch.