I remember it vividly: sitting in our small room in a youth hostel where my dad worked, patiently moving about the room with an old-fashioned aerial.
Lifting it up.
Moving it sideways.
Trying, with all my eight-year-old might, to make a picture out of so much fuzz.
Mother and Son was on, playing on the one channel we had in our small rural town at that time, in the one timeslot you could watch it. This was before hard disk recorders.
This was before iView.
You watched your favourite show when the TV guide told you that you could watch it.
I wanted to watch Mother and Son. I lived for the brief snippets I caught amongst the static. I watched it in fits and bursts, when I got the aerial in the exact right position.
Even those brief snippets made my heart sing.
I hope the ABC is okay. I hope it’s okay.