Television, at its very best, transports lonely souls from the quiet desperation of their tiresome existence, envelops them in its warm glow, and eases their worried minds.
At its very best, it has no pretensions to educate or open the mind, but soothes and cheers every viewer held tight within its hypnotic flicker with something so meaningless but engaging the world can not muscle in.
Television, at its very best, is watching rugby league.
The league has returned, as it does every year.
It returns just when you're ready, as cricket is winding down and the mornings are growing cold.
Every year offers another 26 rounds of tribal idiocy, passionate boof-headed macho strutting, grass, mud and blood.
Six tackles up, six tackles back, 80 minutes split into two neat packages with a half-time peek into a steamy dressing room.
Oh, the joy.
For the Sky viewer, there is an endless supply all winter long, and if you tire of the Australian version, there are the exotic climes of northern England, with the boys from Huddersfield, Leeds and Manchester thumping each other in Super League.
The free-to-air pickings are slimmer, but Prime offered two games on the weekend, albeit post-midnight.
• The Living Channel is for a certain sort of viewer - usually the sort that isn't me - with its line-up of lifestyle shows and reruns of Antiques Roadshow.
But documentary My Street may help change that.
The basic premise appeared, at first, to be some sort of ultra-nosy reality television.
After 14 years of living in the same street, the promo goes, film-maker Sue Bourne knew practically none of her neighbours.
So she began knocking on the 116 doors to see who she would meet.
What Bourne has created, after knocking on the doors of her west London street, is a remarkably warm and engaging portrayal of the tragedies and triumphs of everyday life.
In My Street (Saturday, April 11 at 10.30pm), Bourne interviews a household of drunken New Zealanders, a young man with Tourette's syndrome, people with cancer, and many more with a surprising diversity of stories.
Perhaps it is the unsentimental delivery, or the simple straight questions Bourne asks, but despite the sometimes tragic circumstances - Tourette's sufferer Adam, for instance, later dies alone in his flat - the subjects come across as dignified, intelligent, and human in a good way.
My Street has moments of humour: Adam rings for a pizza, swearing at the person on the other end of the phone with every second word.
And it has moments that should be sad, but aren't.
"Is it lonely?" Bourne asks an old man who lives alone.
"What do you think?" he replies.
Gentle, humorous and thoughtful, as the promo promises, sums up My Street nicely.
