By the time I moved in, the bungalow had been empty for some months. You can imagine the splendid pile of shiny leaflets and buff envelopes heaped up inside the front door.
Among the usual fare of pizzas, insurance, loans and double-glazing, four letters were addressed to the non-existent 'Occupier', in increasingly loud and offensive language, pointing out the urgent need to obtain a television licence. The penalties for not complying are too terrible to contemplate.
Since I arrived, a further four letters have come, the later ones all promising a visit from someone, at any time of day or night, to inspect the premises for unlicensed sets. Since I like to welcome strangers (see Hebrews 13.2), I have been looking forward to this caller. If he is coming anyway it seems pointless to tell him that I have no such set; he will want to see for himself. Viewing is what it's all about. At our previous home two inspectors came in a month; strangely, neither wished even to look upstairs, let alone examine the bathroom. I asked the second whether he had nothing better to do and he told me the job paid well. He had no TV himself. Maybe he used to be a nurse. I met an ex-nurse who became a hospital porter because there was more money in it. It was not always so.
