Tum te-tum te-tum te-tum...
As a child, I had to endure Radio 4 if I was in the kitchen. It didn't matter what time of day it was, Radio 4 was always on. On top of that the hours of 14:02-14:15 and 19:02-19:15 were sacrosanct. We were never, ever, under any circumstances, permitted to interrupt Mum while The Archers was on. The opening bars of Barwick Green always sent my siblings and I scurrying in fear from the kitchen.

I swore I'd never listen to Radio 4 after leaving home, and especially not The Archers.

Many years later, my job meant I had to spend innumerable hours on the road, and the company van's radio was just that: a radio. No tape, no CD, no auxiliary socket for an MP3 player, nothing like that. So I listened to the radio, a lot.

At first I listened to pop music stations because, it being a white van, that's all the radio would pick up. I don't know what it is about radios in white vans, but it's completely impossible to pick up anything other than Radio 1 and its commercial equivalents.

I soon became bored with that because, quite frankly, Radio 1 and its commercial equivalents are, always have been, and always will be, completely shit. It just took me a while to realise, that's all. Local radio stations are just as bad. I ended up driving in silence rather than endure the moronic drivel spouted by La Baker, La Evans, La Radcliffe, La Whiley et al.

Then I got a proper car, with a proper radio, and explored the dizzying heights of Classic FM. After all, I wasn't old enough, or boring enough, for Radio 3. But even that palled after a while. There's only so much Vivaldi a man can take. There's more to decent classical music than non-stop chamber quartets.

And thus commenced my descent. I started small, with Today and P.M. They fitted neatly with my commute, and I began to look forward to John Humphrys' skewerings of venal politicians (I suspect venal is a tautology, where politicians are concerned...), and Eddie Mair's dulcet tones. They always brightened up an otherwise dull commute.

Sometimes my commute would take a bit longer, so in the morning I would be treated to some civilised discourse on the nature of modern society, courtesy of such luminaries as Andrew Marr, Melvyn Bragg, or Libby Purves. In the evening there would be the Six O'Clock News, followed by Nicholas Parsons, Humphrey Lyttleton, or Sandi Toksvig. Sometimes I was unfortunate enough to have to listen to Steve Punt, the only man I know who is his own rhyming slang, but that happened blessedly few times.

I always, without fail, turned the radio off at 7 p.m. The scars from my childhood were still too raw to contemplate, and I was ostensibly in charge of a 3,000-lb instrument of death, hurtling along at 70 m.p.h. on the public roads. I did not think it fair to subject other road users to my suicidal tendencies, brought on by a surfeit of Lynda Snell.

But then one night I did not turn off the radio. I wanted to listen to Mark Lawson interview someone - I forget whom - and did not wish to risk missing the start of the programme. So I compromised. I turned the volume down so I could barely hear anything, gritted my teeth during Barwick Green, and did my best both to ignore the radio for the next quarter-hour and to avoid driving into anyone.

I survived the experience.

The problem with surviving unpleasant experiences is that doing so becomes easier with repetition. With enough repetition it ceases to be unpleasant and becomes tolerable. After a while, it becomes routine. And once routine it becomes expected. One starts to look forward to it. If there is a break in the routine it is a disappointment. One starts to enjoy it, in fact. I believe this has been called Stockholm Syndrome.

It didn't take long for me to turn the volume down less each time. Eventually I stopped turning the volume down at all. I started listening to the exploits of Shula, and Kenton, and Nigel, and Jennifer, and Brian, and Eddie, and Clarrie, and Lynda, and the rest. I let the sound wash over and soothe me as I drove through the evening. I started paying attention to the everyday story of country folk, and was drawn into their trials and tribulations.

So far, this has only happened in the car. And I haven't voluntarily turned on the radio at 7 p.m. if it has happened to be off, or I've been listening to a CD. If I've been at home, the radio has been switched off rather than continue listening. I retain some degree of self control... for now.

But the slope is slippery, and I am well and truly on it. There is no hope for me; it is merely a matter of time before I am consumed. The time will come when I start planning my day such that I have a quarter-hour spare at 7 p.m. And I will be grumpy and irritable if that routine is ever interrupted.

I am doomed.
( flake has nothing against your right leg, Thu 30 Apr 2009, 21:36, 3 replies)

Ooooh nooooooo
(said in geordie accent)
That is all.
( Duke Of Belmsford has got 99 records, but Jay-Z ain't one, Fri 1 May 2009, 0:16, closed)

That won't get the pigs in.
Radio 4 is wonderful.
(MattWPBS, Fri 1 May 2009, 2:26, closed)

The final, inevitable stage?

Planning your Sunday morning so that you can listen to the omnibus edition over a leisurely breakfast and a potter round the garden.

It's only a matter of time.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Fri 1 May 2009, 10:18, closed)