For five years my TV (second hand I must admit) gave valliant service. Switched on when I pressed the button, changed channels when required and went to sleep whenever I decided to go horizontal for the night. Okay, so the picture wasn't digital or high definition. With my eyesight it wouldn't have made much difference anyway.
This evening, however, my purveyor of entertainment and information decided it was time to self destruct, and no amount of CPR managed to resuscitate the damn thing. It didn't matter whether I thumped it on the top or on both sides. One handed or two, it made little difference. Just a box of defunct electrical bits and pieces collecting dust is what it is now.
There is however, a good side to the demise of said telly. I no longer have to put up with the pathetic patriotic fervour that rocks the world whenever some balding geezer, who might be King one day, (if the UK doesn't become a republic first) decides it's a good idea to get wed.
I'll bet he's got a TV that works though.
Still, if he gets a spare one as a wedding gift he can send a chauffeur in a Rolls over to Zoutleeuw with it, being as I never got the Queen's shilling when I joined the Army in '64. Inflation should make that shilling worth a flat screen TV in today's money.