I’m not quite sure how it happened, but I seem to be watching Master Chef.  At least, the end of it.

Well, I lie, I do know how it happened. The final student on a Monday has her lesson in a living room, and her parents sit behind her, watching the TV. It’s a small town house that belongs to the grandmother, since the family lives on the other side of Sydney, and it’s out of my general area; so the girl goes to her grandmother’s for the lesson, and I tune out the TV and teach things. Still, in the corner of my eye I see the show travel past, and I’ve always liked the way food can look (I have a not so secret admiration for good cooking, possibly because I don’t seem to have any ability at it beyond a basic cook this like this). When the video card died earlier this week, I was left with a bit of spare time on my hands, especially since it’s school holidays, and I teach a little less. Combine the two, and here I am, making a post about Master Chef.

Mostly, I have a dislike for reality TV. The only show I ever watched with regularity was Rock Star: Ageing Rockers Suck Your Youth to Make a New Band, and even then I only watched the elimination episode. I was partly aided by that because of a message board that I’d hang round on at the time, and where we’d shoot the breeze making fun at everyone (or talking about some of the people that were okay, and where their non-famous bands were located). I don’t have this this time, and the show is almost over, which is a bit of a shame, because I reckon I could’ve addicted some folk to it.