Hi °C | Lo °C Ulster has disappeared. It's as if the whole province has changed from a gorgeous coach and four and turned into a giant pumpkin at midnight.
All the lovely dresses are gone, the witty ripostes forgotten, the glass slippers cracked and discarded.
At least, that's how the world looks from Broadcasting House in Ormeau Avenue.
Rather than creaking on into the wee small hours with our very own homespun programming - racking up those hours to justify the local broadcasting quotas - Radio Ulster now closes down at the witching hour.
Several familiar voices are now lost and truck drivers rattling down country lanes, security men dozing in their booths, shelf stackers smoking in the aisles, and students burning the midnight oil, are left listening to Radio Five Live broadcasting to Darkest Ulster from Real Civilisation across the water. We are awash with gratitude. Thank you, London. Thank you, Miss Vera Lynn. Thank you, Prime Minister Churchill.
We can now listen to Stephen Nolan night and morning. Good night, everyone, good night.
