When you’ve been married for 150 years like me, dating shows can be tiresome. I still haven’t recovered from the torpor of the last series of Love Island. Once you’ve seen one girl in an upside-down bikini snogging a recruitment consultant who looks like Andrew Ridgeley next to a fire pit, you’ve seen them all.
I’ve also never managed to fall in love at first, no matter how many people froth about it. And just seemed like a lot of knackered old people wandering around a house in bathrobes and leggings, which is a bit of a busman’s holiday, to be honest.
