You need to get out more," said Tim my gay dog-walker friend who had invited himself round for coffee.

He had thought it too cold to spend an entire morning on the Downs with his pack and had caught me indulging in a worrying activity.

"Working in a cupboard and only communicating by text and email is playing havoc with your brain."

I nodded in weary agreement, the way old people do when they're told by nursing home staff that they're going to watch Coronation Street even though they can't stand it, and said: "I blame the French."

"You should get back to commuting," continued Tim. "At least it gives you the chance to read trashy magazines and get a slight hold on what is happening in the world of popular culture."

I nodded again wondering if he was going to suggest I start watching Coronation Street just so I can get a slight hold on the storyline and make informed conversation in bus queues.

"You should come on the march with me for starters," he went on. By march he meant the mass walking of dogs which he and some of his other dog-walking friends had organised for the following weekend in protest against the war.

He pulled a computer-printed leaflet from his pocket, which read, "Walkies against the War", and went on to give details of the Dogs on the Downs rally as well as details of his dog-walking business,www.walkies.co.uk.

"Come and I won't tell anyone what I caught you listening to," said Tim before adding, "perhaps you could write about it, while you're at it?"

"So now you're trying to bribe me, just because I was listening to Billie Holliday," I said.

"I might just text Sara and tell her about it."

"No don't do that," I begged him and agreed to go on the dogfest before he told anyone what was on the radio when he walked through the door.

The actual radio is a state of the art, old-meets-new-designed digital radio - a present to the house from Thomas.

He bought it as he liked the look of it and before reading accompanying literature, which would have told him only a handful of digital channels can actually be received along the South Coast and the BBC ones he wanted to hear cannot.

Apparently, like everything else at the moment, this is the fault of the French. At least that is what the nice woman at the digital broadcasting authority told me.

Anyway, the radio looks nice and what it does receive it receives excellently. It also tells you on a clever display what station you are hearing so loud and clear.

So, I did a bit of channel hopping (there were only five to hop between) and eventually plumped for a station I'd never heard of which called itself Primetime and seemed to play fairly inoffensive hits from a previous century.

I'd been happily listening to Primetime for a few days (and even, in secret moments, dancing round the sitting room to it) when Tim arrived.

"Next thing we know you'll be off to the sweet shop for a bag of Parma Violets to take to bingo with you," he said before revealing a fact which, despite having enjoyed the delights of Primetime radio for the best part of a week, had somehow escaped me.

"Just be quiet a minute," said Tim, when the Primetime announcer told us we'd been listening to Billie Holiday. "He'll tell you what else you've been listening to in a moment."

He did. Primetime radio is SAGA's national radio station for elderly, retired people. I must get out more, though I still blame the French ...