The regular televised screenings of Star Trek on Sunday evenings were met with great fanfare in my household. My father would supply the ever more inventive snackwich (or however the new, improved sealed toast from the future was spelt); my mother was on Nesquick (chocolate milk) duty. Timing was of the essence as television waited for no family or their snacks at that stage of the game. The show would go on no matter what. Oh, but once we'd settled into formation on the couch, what a show it was. There we were in the flickering blue light, slightly bewildered by the Roquefort fillet steak snackwich, but powering through, our very own satellite hub of fantasists ready to be dazzled by the final frontier...