The clock hits 4.30pm and the battle begins.
Each sat in their own room, at opposite ends of the house, one on his reclining chair, with his feet up on the table in front of him. The other lying down, relaxing after a long day in school, on the couch, with salt and vinegar crisps conveniently placed within hand reach.
Both are clicking away at the small black buttons, each having a different number in mind. The white numbers have started to fade away, leaving the evidence for these persistent and childish acts.
With every successful click of his, her face reacts involuntarily to the results that appear on the screen. Lips mouthing incoherent, newly coined words and nose that has become asymmetrical, one half higher than the other, she determinedly presses hard on her chosen button “back up”, which never changes.
After ten minutes of this futile and frustrating game (to her) she decided to be the bigger person and give up the fight.
Remote controls, regardless of their revolutionary, lazy inducing advantages, turn everyone, whether it was the 80 year old or the already young 14 year old, into petty children.