Oh, dear. This was the lost weekend when I discovered Outlander, which only goes to show that one is never too middleaged for - sigh - utterly compelling romantic tosh. I'm appalled to say I watched 11 episodes back to back, completely gripped and feel as if I have gorged my way through a big slab of Highland toffee. If only I'd had a nice single malt to wash it all down, but sadly I had to make do with mugs of tea.
Poldark? Ladies, Poldark is nothing ... Poldark is a lukewarm Cornish pasty.
I've never read Diana Gabaldon's historical time travel novels and I don't really want to because, honestly, this is all too preposterous. It is 1945 and Claire, who was an Army nurse, is reunited with her puffy-faced English husband at the end of the war. He looks as if he's escaped from an episode of Foyle's War (and when I googled him, it seems that he really did). But we can forget about him - completely not my type, I'm afraid - because next thing, she's in the middle of some standing stones and  whoosh, she's transported back to Scotland in the 1740s and gorgeous Jamie in his kilt - see above - is rescuing her from the puffy-faced English Redcoat, the sadistic b...... who is her husband's ancestor.
No wonder they had to delay showing it until after the referendum.
It is beautifully filmed - apparently, the most expensive series ever filmed in Scotland - and shame on the BBC for not buying it up for mainstream TV.