I settled in tonight to watch David Attenborough’s new series Secret Garden and within five minutes was watching a teeny bank vole nearly get taken out by a robot lawn mower, so I turned it off.

I signed up for Secret Garden. Not Mechanical Death Trap for the Very Adorable and Innocent.

Is it too much to ask that nature programmes aren’t just snuff films for our fluffy and wingèd brethren?

I live in a world where I have to listen to Trump and simultaneously try to adapt to the knowledge that not a single solitary bloke is being prosecuted for anything in Epstein’s orbit.

Can I not have one hour where nothing, and I mean NOTHING, is being casually obliterated, human or vole?

Can’t I just quietly ogle a baby bunny without its face getting ripped off by a fox?

Or lovingly witness a baby bird sleeping in its nest without it suddenly plummeting to its death and becoming lawn purée?

Whoever decided nature documentaries needed to be The Purge: Floof Edition needs a big think about why they're like this and then needs to stand very still and accept a firm slap from a damp copy of Country Living.