Eva Bradley Photo/File
While there is no question reality TV has done very bad things for our reality (not least by robbing us of countless hours of life during prime time), it has become a genuine worry to me how much the internet is changing our reality too.
And I don't mean in the way men might, now that without even trying, their Facebook feeds and internet searches are dominated by unrealistic pictures of women designed to make the real ones in their lives look undersized and over-age.
I mean in the way internet streaming of television series can have us spending more time in a fictional world than the real one.
As a bit of a back story, I must confess to an embarrassing predilection for period dramas of the British persuasion. Any new shows with a Tudor twist or world-war bent immediately put me in a froth of anticipation.
Lately I have been consumed by the sweeping hemlines and social scandals of Mr Selfridge on TV One.
For one hour every Thursday evening, I happily slip into a parallel universe dominated by good manners and early 20th-century scandal.
When I tragically missed an episode, I did what we are all inclined to do these days and (legally) streamed it instead. The trouble was it was so easy to do this that I immediately streamed the next episode, then the next, and the next until there were no more.
My head filled with life in London circa 1918, I moved out to the Home Counties and a little forward in time to Downton Abbey season two. And three. And now four.
While this has been an excellent refresher on key historical events of the time and the numerous ways to navigate around a good old-fashioned post-Edwardian scandal, it has done little for my productivity and has instead seen me spend so much time with my laptop in bed that I'll soon be checking for bed sores.
The reality is my reality isn't.
By which I mean I'm spending so much time binge-watching a single series that the lives of the characters have become more tangible than those in the real world.
Like a drug, I kept downloading "just one more episode" to the point that I found myself watching TV at 10am mid-week when I should have been firmly planted behind my computer at work.
Not only had I been corrupted by the intoxicating powers of internet streaming, I had also fallen victim to what must surely be one of the 21st century's least attractive qualities: instant gratification.
Once upon a time when we had to wait (yes, wait!) a whole week for one more hour of our favourite show (including all the adverts), good telly was a sweet and treat at the end of a long day.
We waited for our favourite show a little like a kid waits for Christmas.
Now, like everything else, it is on tap.
The joy of anticipation that comes from a little bit of longing is gone and, with it, much of the magic.
I can only be grateful for small mercies since it isn't possible to "skip ahead" on Game of Thrones, and as a result Monday nights have never been so good.
Except when it skips a week because of US scheduling, prompting such national mourning that a major metropolitan newspaper even ran a "news" story with the headline: "Nooo! There's no Game of Thrones tonight". Needless to say, it shot straight to the "most viewed news item" list.
I know I'm in the driving seat of this first-world problem and the solution is as simple as not clicking "download". Just like a meth addict simply needs to put down the needle.
Now enough of all this. It's keeping me from season four, episode nine.