Kate Stanton: I am standing up for my fellow telly addicts

I reached for the remote and stuck the telly on.

Floors stayed dusty, dishes remained unwashed and bills went unpaid as I sat through three hours of Real Housewives of New Jersey and then caught up with those posh bed-hoppers from Made in Chelsea.

I was just getting stuck in to some vintage Ten Years' Younger (pre-Myleene Klass) when I experienced a rare moment of clarity.

I'm a bit like an alcoholic when it comes to TV. I said to myself: Kate, whatever pressures you're under, you won't find the answer staring back at you from the TV screen.

Indeed, the bottom of a wine glass may have provided more motivation to sort my life out. But it got me thinking. How much of my life have I wasted as a couch potato?

As a child, watching excessive TV was frowned upon, which just made it all the more exciting.

I rarely missed an episode of Grange Hill as a child. Then Neighbours and Home and Away became the must-see shows, and from 13 it was all about 'Enders and Corrie. Before I knew it I was watching Emmerdale too while I waited for whatever came after it. I even watched the news a few times. You know, just to have an idea of the real world.

Then reality TV became a thing.

I started totting up all those hours the other day – just roughly, of course – maths was never my strong point. Taking into account all the trash I've been glued to over the last 15 years, I reckon I've spent at least 12 whole months devoted to this pointless pastime.

It's a stark figure – accurate or not. It makes it rather hard to wonder if I shouldn't regret all these hours I've spent not achieving anything.

We learn little from most of today's TV. The Attenborough documentaries and other serious stuff is there if you look for it, but I'm too easily lured away by Made in Chelsea's Lucy Watson and Phoebe Lettice's tenuous friendship and whether it can endure the London party scene.

Of course, I don't really care about these shows. Watching them is just a way of switching off by switching on. But I can't truly regret it. I have great memories; some as fresh as if I'd actual been there – rather than a passive observer.

Phil Mitchell, red-faced and off his head, running round Albert Square setting fire to stuff; Stephen Baldwin attempting a religious conversion of Alex Reid; Liz McDonald and her endless parade of glamorous outfits; Phil Mitchell, red-faced and off his head, running round Albert Square . . . golden memories, readers, truly golden.

I realise that in all the time I've spent watching TV I probably could have written several shows of my own. You know, the sort that would have been overnight successes and brought me untold riches. But you know what? Then I wouldn't have my precious memories.

And I can never be sure that my imagination would have come up with such classics as Jodie Marsh half-heartedly searching for a husband on some reality show; the Coventry Come Dine With Me contestant who served up a sausage trifle for dessert, or Rylan's teeth? Unlikely. I reckon I've made a valuable investment over the last decade or two.

And, on that note, I'm off to devote another hour of my life to Don't Tell The Bride.