Like gardening, crosswords and Countdown, I’d always regarded detective dramas and Murder mysteries as the domain of the older generation.

I knew it was only a matter of time until I succumbed to them, but I was determined to resist for as long as possible. I felt the same about wearing slippers, fearing a part of me would die inside if I gave in to them.

I’ve never seen a single episode of Morse, A Touch Of Frost or Silent Witness. New Tricks and Dalziel And Pascoe passed me by. I once tuned in to Miss Marple, which was so dull I’d fallen asleep by the time the murderer was unveiled.

And Midsomer Murders seemed so unbearably twee. I barely registered its existence; it had been on for several years before I twigged that Midsomer was the name of the place where it’s set. I thought it was about murders that took place during midsummer. Then again, I once thought car boot sales actually sold car boots, so I’m not the sharpest tool in the box.

I still can’t believe it happened, but last week I paid my first visit to Midsomer. It wasn’t intentional; I arrived there via a casual channel-hop and before I knew it I was embroiled in a gripping tale about a cravat-wearing toff who was decapitated in a ghost train. It was delightfully old-fashioned, with a colourful collection of suspects and sub plots. I even worked out who the killer was. As the body count mounted – I’ve never seen so many severed heads on prime time TV – there was a subtle tongue-in-cheek strand weaving alongside the bloodshed.

In his book Adventures On The High Teas, writer and broadcaster Stuart Maconie explores Middle England and its music, food, humour, relationships and crime. The latter, he told an audience at Ilkley Literature Festival last year, takes on a somewhat comforting role, with “the Midsomer Murders theme tune drawing Middle Englanders to the TV, armed with Hobnobs and an oakish Chardonnay, to watch John Nettles tackling mass carnage.”

Sitting on the sofa, my two ten-week-old kittens curled up on my lap, watching a succession of Midsomer locals meeting a grisly end at the hands of a bespectacled sword-wielding nursemaid, I knew I’d crossed a line.

I’d entered Hobnob-munching, hedge-trimming, crossword-solving territory and there was no going back. I have let Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby into my life and now I’ll be making a point of calling in at Midsomer each week. I can’t fight it.

I do have a shred of dignity left though. I’m still refusing to wear slippers.