Today I get my first jab. The sun is shining for the first time in a week; good omen.

I've been moving furniture around again; it's clearly a thing with me. Back in late October, I moved the television and its peripherals from the (always chilly) basement to the ground-floor sitting room, where it stayed until I had moved all the bookcases and their contents into the upstairs library, previously an oversized bedroom. Then I hauled the TV upstairs, quite an evolution, and set it up.

But it just didn't work there. The room is huge, and I never found a spot to put the TV where the power cord was not a hazard to navigation, it was close enough that I could see everything on the screen clearly, and my eyes would not be stressed by light from the enormous south-facing windows. So the other day I hauled the entire kit back downstairs to the parlour, where it sits against the wall and out of the gangway, at a good distance from the comfy chair, and sheltered from the windows.

But there's something in me that disapproves of television in the most public room in the house. It's my inner snobby bourgeoise at work: "Everything on television is crap and I have better things to do." But the fact is that, these days, I really don't have better things to do, especially in the evenings, and there's some really good stuff on that -- for a fee -- I can watch without being constantly badgered by commercials. So it's time to check my pretensions.

Also, my eyes are undeniably weaker now; after too much time staring at a book or the iPad, I have trouble adjusting to other focal distances. The television presents larger images on the other side of the room, and requires more eye movement.

And the cats like it. As soon as I turn on the box and put up my feet, Isobel assumes the doughnut position on my lap and Watson settles at full stretch on my shins facing the screen. I have no idea what he gets out of John Oliver's weekly rant or BBC dramas, but this behaviour is very consistent.