I've written before about my love for tacky British crime shows set in sleepy country villages.
Miss Marple has been my one true crime fiction love, but I've also been known to liaise with quite a lot of Rosemary and Thyme, Murder She Wrote, and recently, although I'm more a fan of unqualified ladies solving crime, Midsomer Murders.
It's sort of an embarrassing vice.
My friends recoil at the idea of watching such shows, having only come into contact with that sort of television on their grandparents' sofas on Sunday evenings while their parents are out having a nice, exciting time.
Before reaching my early 20s, I myself had only caught snatches of Inspector Barnaby et al on Prime television when I had nothing better to do.
Now I find myself periodically engrossed.
When I first started watching Miss Marple, I convinced myself I was watching it because it was a show with an interesting treatment of women that I could intellectualise while distracting myself from my studies.
I thought it was probably normal to want to watch something so time-consuming, and these shows are time-consuming, during the winter months because there was not much else to do.
Then I got into Rosemary and Thyme and that was in the summer, a time when I had nothing pressing on my plate.
And that was when I realised I seem only to be interested in media that is definitely not targeted at my demographic.
I am 21 years old and I like One Direction, and Sunday night television whose primary audience is the elderly.
At present, I should be focusing on my ever-growing pile of course work, making decent headway on my dissertation.
And to be fair to myself, I do devote some time to university, in between devouring Midsomer Murders; a television show I'm not even sure I like.
It's probably worth noting that I've never been a fan of crime fiction in book format, and I've never been interested in proper murder shows, those with the FBI running around looking glamorous while the (still glitzy) IT specialist bangs away on 12 computers.
But for some reason, what I find appealing is the English constabulary showing complete disregard for procedure and revealing in a step-by-step monologue at the very end of the programme who is responsible for the murders and exactly how they did it.
What has gone so wrong with me that I am so easily amused by something so long-winded and predictable?
It seems as if every murder in a quiet English village, and apparently there are a lot of them, is the result of only a handful of motives. I could probably surmise the plotline within the first 15 minutes of an hour and a-half long episode, yet I am never bored.
Maybe there is something in the unabashed use of tired tropes and story arcs. Possibly, while I'm studying and trying to organise my relatively busy work, social and academic life, I find it comforting to focus on content that is not going to surprise me.
My readings might be substantially longer than I had planned for, but some posh lady in rural England is always going to vengefully murder her neighbour.
I don't talk about this viewing addiction much with those around me, but it is not entirely unlikely there are others with the same problem.
There could be thousands of others in their early 20s hiding away in their bedrooms, engrossed in the unravelling of a homicidal village in the Midlands.
There has to be some reason Netflix keeps making this content available. Millie Lovelock is a Dunedin student.
