An evil force has taken possession of my lounge room.

It�s the only explanation for the phenomenon that occurred over the long weekend. Something that has never darkened the door, or the television, at our house before.

Reality television. Dun, dun, dun.

I have no affinity with reality television. I have watched not a single episode of Survivor, no Idols of any variety have been anointed on my television. And the fact that my crummy TV reception prevents me from watching any of these things has made me glad, rather than sad or mad. Generally I just don�t get it, and I have no desire too.

But then, on Sunday evening, something changed � and I wasn�t even in the room at the time. I was lying in the bath soaking my sore back (bastard back! You know I�m about to take a long haul flight, don�t you!), reading my book and enjoying my fourth or fifth glass of wine. What? It was a long weekend. At about 8.25pm I returned to the lounge room all pruney and happy to be greeted by the elimination �ceremony� at the end of the very first episode of the first season of the search for America�s Next Top Model, or, as it�s known here in non-centre of the universe land, The Next Top Model.

I looked around, sure that Betty must not be in the room, having abandoned the television to be overtaken by the devil in this manner. But no, Betty is sitting wrapt on the couch and immediately advises that there�s this one potential model who is trying to convert the others to Christianity and doing it in a very amusing and annoying fashion.

I poked Betty with a stick to make sure a pod person of some kind hadn�t replaced my housemate. The housemate that has as little interest in reality television as I do. But no, it was Betty all right, and all that was offered by way of explanation was the standard �there was nothing else on�, which often applies despite the fact that we have about 50 cable channels (and is sure to apply in a few months when we have 130 digital channels).

Okay, this wasn�t the end of the world.

Then comes Monday and the discovery that the relevant cable channel is showing virtually the entire series at once, in two hour blocks over the course of each weekday evening. Nothing there compelling us to watch, fine.

By the middle of the afternoon Betty is glancing at the TV guide, and probably noticing the amount of sport on the other channels that I might want to watch, mused �Hmmm, that model show is on tonight, two hours might be too much though.�

Cut to five minutes before start time. Betty: �We might have a look at that model show for a while.� Uli, stupidly: �Ok.�

Two hours later, we�re both dragging ourselves out of our chairs having successfully picked the third eliminee (is that a word?), and contemplating who would go next.

It�s evil, the devil I tell you. I am not responsible. And I won�t be responsible when I sit down this evening to watch episodes 4 and 5. I will continue to be possessed. And perhaps a little drunk, as that clearly helps.

* * *

It was only a matter of time, but in the past couple of days two people have ended up here by searching neighbours having sex.