Postman arrived mid morning with package containing video.

Was expecting video from National Organ Donor society which is vital piece of viewing research for feature am supposed to be writing about organ transplant co-ordinator for Sunday magazine.

Was halfway though ejecting Monsters Inc. from video, in order to watch organ transplants or some such equally appetising footage, when realised video not for self at all but for youngest daughter from her friend in New Zealand and is all about The Wiggles Big Red Car.

Not having come across The Wiggles or their Big Red Car before, and not being in the mood for doing anything other than a bit of video-watching "research", decided to watch it anyway.

Was appalled - possibly less appalled than I would have been by having to watch live organ transplants - but appalled anyway.

The Wiggles are five regular-looking (at least they would be if you passed them in the street) Australian men (possibly Kiwis - I can never tell which is which from the accent alone - but anyway, they are definitely antipodean) who will one day come to regret their early careers as children's television muppets.

Dressed in different brightly coloured, garish shirts, they sing and dance (or rather wiggle and "do the wag") through various excruciating routines, all the time looking bright eyed and child friendlily bushy-tailed.

Having watched the full 50 minutes was wondering if I could bear to do so ever again and whether the morning was, therefore, being spent productively - weeding out viewing material unsuitable for two-year-old (resulting in self disposing of video before two-year-old ever got to know of its existence) - rather than time-wasting when supposed to be working.

Wondering interrupted by Sara ringing doorbell to ask if she could borrow virus- detecting software as she appeared to have a bug in computer.

"What are you up to?" she asked.

To which I replied that I was supposed to be writing piece about organ transplant co-ordinator but had been diverted by arrival of unsuitable-for-children viewing material and was about to dispose of it.

"What is it?" she inquired. "Black-market Tweenies that turns into Thai porn just as they get to songtime?"

"Worse," I said, indicating The Wiggles who had rewound selves and were in process of starting to do "the wag" while singing Let's Do The Wag all over again.

Sara equally appalled, saying it reminded her of the days when screen god Jeremy Irons used to appear dressed as a rat, jumping up and down and singing PLAY-AWAY-WAY, PLAY-AWAY-PLAY-AWAY, along with the rest of the Play-Away team.

"I'd forgotten that," I said, vaguely remembering, which is apparently what Jeremy wants us all to do.

We were interrupted by editor of Sunday magazine phoning to ask how organ transplant co-ordinator piece was coming along. I explained that I was waiting for a video, which I needed as essential background research, to arrive before I could actually get down to writing the piece.

"So," she said, displaying both extraordinarily keen hearing and extraordinary knowledge of children's programming, "you decided to watch The Wiggles instead . . . "