My great aunt had a small brown bakerlite television that she would perch on the edge of a grand Victorian sideboard.
Once a month we would go for Sunday tea, a feast of boiled ham, scalded tomatoes, brawn and tongue sandwiches, tea cakes and madiera sponge placed upon fenestrated silver tiered cake stands. Tea scooped from a lead lined casket would be placed in warmed China tea pots, mashed, drunk and slopped outout with conversation general and specific.
A coal fire would be lit, the smoke billowing down the cold chimney into the room full of the heavy hot breathing folk, and the ghostly flickering television screen.
On one Sunday afternoon I watched the first 15 minutes of David Leans rendition of Great Expectations. I, a 7 year old boy, stood captivated enthralled riveted to the floor as images of gaunt trees creaked over broken grave stonesstones. Such an experience set itself deep within.