There was no queue of episodes waiting for you. Saturday morning television happened at a particular time, and missing it meant waiting a whole week. That restriction made it feel important. You watched the clock, guarded your place on the carpet and hoped nobody announced a trip to the shops.
The ritual mattered
Cereal was not simply breakfast; it was part of the viewing equipment. So were the duvet dragged from upstairs, the volume kept just low enough not to wake anyone and the growing pile of toys beside the set. Programmes, adverts and continuity presenters all belonged to the same unruly show.
Then, almost without warning, the grown-up part of the day arrived. The television changed character, the curtains were opened and someone needed the room. But for those few early hours, the house and the airwaves felt as though they belonged entirely to us.
What do you remember?
The cereal, the theme tunes, the adverts — or simply being the only person awake?