I went for a walk, read the papers, walked the dogs, did the washing, ironing and even made the world’s best fish cakes.

I thought perhaps a little tele might round off a satisfyingly active day after almost a fortnight of kidney stone pain had finally lifted.

Silly me.

What type of expert decided that a Sunday night screening of The Ghan train journey would relax, enlighten or even entertain anyone for three, clickety-click, hours?

Reportedly, cutting the footage down to ‘just’ three hours was so difficult that they also made a 17-hour version, which people are now desperate to see.

Give me their names and addresses and don’t let them vote.

Could it be that the reason our TV programming is shite is that the decisions are still being made by men; men, who I suggest, might be passed their use-by date, or worse still, women who are trying to act like men and have thrown flair and imagination out the 22nd-floor window?

They are possibly the same rut-affected, TV programming experts who keep reinventing David Attenborough and the darn Great Barrier Reef.

Why do I blame men? Because far too much TV is non-fiction sport and science.

The dude who believes that 12 hours of televised cricket is good, needs to get out more.

For instance:

Sexy crime shows with hot, mostly-blonde female detectives?(although BBC’s Vera and SBS Inspector Rex break the mould).

Day after day of men and balls? AFL, tennis, cricket, golf … 90 per cent of the bloody hours of television sport is men and balls?

Even Midsomer Murders was about short-form, big bash, cricket versus traditional long form (Test) … “a game played by gentlemen”!

Science TV … Brian Cox, David Attenborough, Michael Mosley and the absolute greatest wank of all time, Mythbusters. 

Are they really so good we have to watch them FOR ETERNITY?

Poke me in the eye and call me a gender cyclops.

Careful what we wish for.

Last week I saw a picture of Wineglass Bay beach covered with tourists.

Is that a good thing?

There goes Tasmania’s brand.

Sold.

To the lowest bidder.

Don’t we understand that the unattainable always has the most appeal and the highest value?

Once we make it easy, the magic is gone.

Covered with people, I estimated more than 150, Wineglass could have been any mainland beach on any Sunday. Complete with litter and g-strings.

Last Monday I experienced the gentle humanity of Launceston, all within an hour.

10am: CT scan with delightful David. Who patiently, politely and with a degree of charm answered dopey questions and explained my results.

10.45am: Fabulous Phillip, the urologist, who went above and beyond to find time, check my results and let me know we could cancel the scheduled surgery.

Next, he tried to help figure how to discreetly strain my urine at work.

Note to Phillip: Discreet is not my middle name.

10.55am: Finally, the girls at Habitat who guided me to a discreet strainer that would ‘do the job’ for less than $5.

11am: Back in my office.

Tuesday, 12.35pm: Fourteen days after it agonisingly announced its presence, my kidney stone left the ‘building’ without a fuss via the Habitat strainer, with only a slight song and dance from me!