Though I wasn’t one of those who let on, I’d be lying if I made out I was revisiting some childhood happy place. If Dark Towers was one of yours, you’ll definitely remember its magnificent theme tune and almost definitely remember an accordant nightmare epidemic – which stopped our class watching the final few episodes. If you went to school in the UK, you’ll likely be familiar with the genre: a story is told over the course of a few weeks, around which language and grammar are taught by presenters in outfits running the full spectrum of beige to brown, and who look 64 but are in fact 23.

In the end we opted to omit that from the curriculum, but as part of tutoring my daughter in the ways of righteousness I decided that we should watch Dark Towers – made in 1981 as part of the BBC’s Look and Read series.

By the end of each day I’m so drained and occasionally elated that I offer even less resistance than usual to my boss’s Real Housewives imposition, every minute of which was justified the moment Porsha congratulated Eva for the “social distancing” performed by her “titties”. Meanwhile, I furnished myself with a new suite of parental neuroses: how do I bestow the benefit of a one-on-one education from someone existentially invested in the outcome, while maintaining a father-daughter dynamic, while assuming a new role of best friend, while ensuring demarcation between home and school, while not being an overbearing moron at a time of intense stress such as to cause permanent psychological damage? This is a rhetorical question, not because everyone knows the answer but because there is no answer.Īll of which is a long-winded way of saying that what I’m really watching is not a lot. Following discussion with the chairman of the governors, formerly known as my wife, non-essential subjects were quickly binned to focus on skills, rather than information, alongside a bespoke programme of enrichment studies, ie, liking the stuff we like.

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