DAY THIRTY-TWO. 11.35 p.m.

Coleridge tiptoed from the kitchen into the living room with his second can of beer. Upstairs his wife was asleep. She had been asleep when he’d arrived home and would still be asleep when he left the house again at six the following morning. She had left Coleridge a note pointing out that although they lived in the same house she had not actually set eyes on him for three days.

Coleridge searched out a Biro and scribbled, “I haven’t changed,” beneath his wife’s message.

The note would still be there the next night, only by then Mrs Coleridge would have added “more’s the pity”.

She didn’t mean it, she liked him really, but, as she often remarked, it’s easy to think fondly of somebody you never see.

Coleridge had brought home with him the Peeping Tom press pack relating to week one in the house. On the front was attached a photocopied memo written on Peeping Tom notepaper. It was headed “Round-up of housemates’ public/press profiles at day eight.” The writer had been admirably succinct.

Woggle is the nation’s pet. Mega-popular.

David is the bastard. Hated.

Kelly has phwoar factor. Popular.

Dervla is an enigmatic beauty. Popular.

Layla is highly shaggable but a pain. Disliked.

Moon is a pain and not even very shaggable. Disliked.

Gazzer and Jazz liked. (Not by feminists and intellectuals.)

Sally, not registered much. When has, disliked. (Note: gay community think S. an unhelpful stereotype. Would have preferred a fluffy poof or lipstick lez.)

Hamish not registered.

Coleridge leafed through the clippings. Most of them confirmed the Peeping Tom memo. There was, however, some discussion about the fact that House Arrest Three was defying expectations and performing much better than had been predicted.

“The saggy souffle rises!” one headline said, referring to its prediction of the previous week that souffles do not rise twice, let alone three times. This was news to Coleridge, who had not realized that when the third series of House Arrest had been announced there had been much speculation that the reality show bubble had already burst. Coleridge had presumed that this sort of show was a guaranteed success, but he was wrong. The press clippings revealed that many shows conceived in the heady days when it seemed that any show with a loud and irritating member of the public in it was a guaranteed winner had failed to live up to their promise. And at the start of week one the new series of House Arrest was confidently expected to be a big failure. But it had defied all the grim expectations, and after seven shows had been broadcast it was already doing as well as its two predecessors. Nobody was more surprised about this than Geraldine herself, something that she freely admitted when she appeared on The Clinic, a hip late-night chat show, in order to promote week two.

Coleridge slipped the video into his home VCR and instantly found himself struggling to reduce the volume as the screaming, blaring frenzy of the opening credits filled his living room and no doubt shot straight upstairs to where his wife was trying to sleep.

“Big up to yez,” said the hip late-night girl, welcoming Geraldine on to the programme. “Cracking first week in the house. We like that.”

“Top telly that woman!” said the hip late-night guy. “Respect. Fair play to yez.”

“Go, Woggle, yeah!” said the girl. “We so like Woggle.”

“He da man!” said the guy. “Who da man?”

“He da man,” said the girl. “Woggle, he da man!” There was much cheering at this. The public loved Woggle.

“Amazing,” said Geraldine when the cheering had died down. “I mean, I thought he would be interesting and stir things up a bit, but I never realized he’d strike such a chord with the viewers.”

“Yeah, well, he’s like a sort of pet, isn’t he?” said the girl. “Like Dennis the Menace, or Animal from the Muppets or whatever.”

“I mean, you wouldn’t want to live with him yourself, but it’s top fun watching other people do it, big time!”

“Woggle, he da man!”

“Da top man. Respect! But the whole show is totally wicked,” the guy added quickly, “so fair play to all of the posse in the house!”

“Respect!”

“Kelly’s my girl! Ooojah ooojah!”

“You would fancy Kelly!” said the girl, punching her partner in the ribs. “Dervla’s easily the most beautiful.”

“Dervla’s beautiful, that is true, and she melts my ice cream big time, so fair play to her for that, but Kelly, well, Kelly has… something special.”

“Big knockers?”

“What can I tell you? It’s a boy thing.”

The boys in the audience let it be known that they agreed with this sentiment.

“And don’t we so hate David?” said the girl. “We so do hate him.”

“We so do not, not hate him,” added the guy.

There was much booing at the mention of David’s name, and the show’s producer dropped in a shot taken directly from the live Internet link to the house. David was sitting crosslegged on the floor playing his guitar, clearly thinking himself rather beautiful. There was more booing and laughter at this.

“Sad or what?” shrieked the hip girl.

Sipping his beer and watching all of this, three and a half weeks after it had been recorded, Coleridge was struck by how astonishingly brutal it was. The man on the screen had absolutely no idea that he was being jeered and ridiculed. It was as if the country had turned into one vast school playground with the public as bully.

“All right, that’s enough of that,” said the guy, clearly having an attack of conscience. “I’m sure his mum likes him.”

“Yeah. Big up to David’s mum! But can you please tell him to cut that hair?”

“And to stop playing that guitar!”

The interview passed on to the unexpected success of the third series so far.

“So you defied the snooties and the sneerers, and the show’s a huuuuugge hit,” said the guy, “which is quite a relief, Geri, am I right? Tell me I’m right.”

“You are so right,” said Geraldine, “and if I wasn’t a bird I’d say my balls were on the line with this one. I’ve sunk every penny I have into it. My savings and all of my severance pay from when I left the BBC. I’m the sole director of Peeping Tom Productions, mate, so if it fails I haven’t got anybody to blame but me.”

“Gutsy lady!” the girl enthused. “We like that! Respect!”

“Too right I’m a gutsy lady, girl,” said Geraldine. “I gave up a cushy job as controller of BBC1 to do the House Arrest thing, and everybody expected this third series to fall on its arse.”

“Yeah, Geri, you really went out on a limb leaving the Beeb,” the hip late-night guy said. “I know your name has often been mentioned as a possible future Director General.”

“Yes, I think they wanted to offer it to me,” she said, “but stuff that, I’m a programme maker, I ain’t spending my day kissing politicians like Billy here’s arse. I ain’t grown up yet.”

The camera pulled out to reveal Billy Jones, who was the other guest on The Clinic, and who was smiling indulgently. Billy was the Minister for Culture and had agreed to appear on The Clinic as part of the government’s strategy to reach out to youth.

“I regret greatly that I shan’t be having my arse kissed by a lady so charming as you, Geraldine,” Billy Jones said, and got a laugh.

“So, Billy,” said the girl, turning to him with a serious expression on her face. “How do you rate House Arrest, then? Top telly or pile of poo?”

“Oh, House Arrest is so top telly,” said the Minister of Culture. “No way is it a pile of poo.”