I’ve got to tell you, one of Wanda’s friends became addicted to video games during the coronavirus.
In her 70s, she didn’t want to go outside, so she tapped herself into Fortnite and shot intruders with the finesse of her crochet skills, yet with an aggression I’d only seen our dog take out on a rolled up bathmat.
How is it that a grandmother of a brood of teenagers can develop an alter-ego when presented with a remote control and a narrative with generational context far too complex for this old campaigner.
While Wanda’s friend wraps her wrinkly fingers around a joystick with the tenacity of a dog with a bone, others have taken to another mod-con – streaming of television shows.
I’ve never had much of an affliction with the box. Between I Love Lucy, the odd episode of Seinfeld and my daily dose of the ABC news, I’d much rather have my head buried in a book.
Reality television has too much fantasy for my liking. So does sci-fi. I’ll endure a romantic comedy with Wanda. She insists I like them more than she does, although I’ve secretly mastered the art of sneaking a look at the football scores on my smart phone.
“Smart,” they say. Sometimes. But that’s a subject for another week.
If a fascination for reading equates to a curiosity for whatever contributes to existence, I’ve got philosophy nailed. I still appreciate the written word, and I do enjoy a tightly constructed piece of prose.
Television is different. Some of it informative. Much of it nonsense, but therein occasionally lies the attraction. The written word is thought through. A witty ad lib retort on television can carry with a hilarity not found on any other medium.
However, I digress. We too have succumbed to the temptation of a paid channel. One of the cheaper ones. You know, to give it a go. To see what all the fuss is about.
As we scroll through the many offerings, there are movies I’d have watched five years ago had I developed any inkling of interest, documentaries which may fascinate, and new shows which have reviewers scrambling for their thesaurus to find a complimentary phrase to pique the interest of their time poor fans.
We note that many of the shows are 40 minutes, give or take, which is an attraction in itself. A bit like an after-dinner mint, we could nibble at our leisure, couldn’t we Wanda?
Which we attempted to do. In the days of I Love Lucy or Seinfeld, you’d watch to the end, absorb the punchline and sleep happily knowing there would be another episode to titillate the funny bone the following week.
Now, the punch lines are thick and fast, and like Days of Our Lives, there is no end. So we watch another episode in hope, for no other reason than that it’s there. Didn’t even have to request it. It just played, like a needle stuck in a record, on autopilot.
The cuppa’s finished. I fall asleep, only to awake during episode 6, Wanda glued to the screen.
Only four episodes to go, I’m informed. Had anyone said either of us would watch a seven-hour movie, documentary, any sort of television show, and I’d have told them they were bonkers.
We’ve done it three times now. Lockdown? What lockdown?
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