Sunday night became Monday morning about an hour ago, and I’m skimming through the television channels. Billie Piper is on one of the channels, and she’s not wearing much. Actually – strike that – she’s being really very naughty indeed; and now I can’t turn to another channel.

It turns out the amazing scenes unfolding in front of my rapidly diminishing eyes are from the drama “Secret Diary of Call Girl” – based on the book “Belle du Jour”.

I have not read Belle Du Jour, and suddenly it seems that I should have. I’ve certainly read about it, and seen it in numerous railway station booksellers, usually topping the charts. My not having read it is an anomaly of sorts – I’ve read quite a few controversial books.

“Lolita” asked difficult questions, and didn’t answer them. “Tropic of Cancer” opened a window onto a very dark world. “We” still sits in my pile of books to read one day; famous for getting it’s author into quite a lot of trouble with the Soviet state for promoting the idea of being an individual, and having free thought.

I have Billie Piper stuck in my head now – some kind of short circuit is going on – the wholesome young girl who sang “Because I Want To”, and partnered Dr Who on countless adventures was a well rounded character in my mind. I thought I knew her. Of course that was before a few minutes ago when I saw her cavorting with an uncomfortable businessman, dressed in the most impressively fitted underwear I’ve seen in quite some time.

Dr Who will never be the same again.