Idiot Box
Mother yells at me in an accurate depiction of the long-suffering matrons on prime-time Sun TV soap operas.
The boy grins at me sheepishly when I gape at Homer Simpson’s lines, remembering suddenly where I’ve heard them before.
Everyone who’s anyone on my Facebook feed is talking about the latest ‘it’ show that I haven’t managed to catch since I don’t buy that channel/ cable-walla hasn’t heard of it/ I’m not cool enough for it.
A box called an idiot fills my world. My life is run by television scriptwriters. *SIGH*
