It's been forty years that we've spent together, but I'm afraid our ways must part. Over the past four decades there've been times that you've been so very, very good. It's been especially noticeable when times have been bad: they've perversely been your best times. But those worst of times, the times that really inspired you to go further than anyone could have expected or demanded, have spoilt the good times.
You see, I look on you now, when times aren't so bad, and you simply disappoint me. You're striving for mediocrity - or, even worse, you're mugging for the cheap seats.
I'm really not all that nostalgic for the so-called good old days. Really, when I compare the capabilities you had then with what you're able to do now, I shake my head in wonder. You had so little, and you did so much with it. I recall thinking that if you could do that now, what would you be able to do in the 21st century? Well, it seems that all you've been able to do is put pearls on a dung-beetle.
I guess the rot set in when you changed your religion. You used to worship at the altar of Story, of Substance, of Truth, of Veracity - of Responsibility. You looked at what you had to do, and you worked so hard to do it well, assuming that I was a trusted friend, someone with intelligence and wit, someone who was worthy of your respect.
Then you were tempted by the glittery idols of popularity, fame, and celebrity. You saw the cover of the Women's Weekly, and its siren-call brought you too close to the hidden reefs of of the slum-lords. You stopped working for Story and Substance, and allowed yourself to be seduced by the Strumpet of "Success". You looked at me, and were disappointed in me, because I remained wedded to the idea that you were so much better. You sold me out for a mess of pottage, and, in doing so - you broke my heart.
And so, TV1 and TV3 News, it is sayonara. When you stopped having confidence in my ability to think and analyse, when you took away from me the strong meat and drink of real news and demonstrated your total contempt for me by serving up self-congratulatory pabulums that included inanities and jovialities and non-stories about television shows that your light-entertainment department were screening later that night.. well, that's when I knew that our marriage was over.
What hurts is that, just a month ago, you showed me how capable you were of acheiving true excellence. The coverage you both gave me of the Christchurch earthquake showed me you're still capable.
But you mopped the sweat from your brow, and got back to the real world of entertainment of joviality.
So, it's goodbye. Don't feel too bad. I feel that some of the fault lies with me: I forgot to demand more of you. I'll invite you in occasionally in the future. Nostalgia will demand it of me. But we'll never be close again. Not even good friends.
READING: Joe Haldeman, "Old Twentieth". Again, sci-fi the way it should be. Demanding.
LISTENING TO: Jeff Beck, "Emotion and Commotion". Bloody hell. He is beyond brilliant.
Still having trouble connecting to the WiFi with the baby 'pooter - and, as that's the one I have "Heroes" on, I'm afraid that's where it stays. bummer.