The big cherry tree in the garden clung to its yellowing foliage throughout the damp, still autumn, then shed the lot in two days.
Beyond the branches lie vistas unseen for months. I spend a half-hour watching a man repoint a chimney 100 metres away. I switch over to check on a loft extension going up nearby, just by swivelling in my chair. I don’t do this because I have nothing else to do; I do it because I have too much else to do.
Once it gets dark there is nothing to watch. My wife and I sit in front of the TV, taking turns to change channels. We use the other remote to swap between the two black boxes that provide different, if largely overlapping, programme selections.
“Why aren’t we watching this?” my wife says, showing me a text recommendation from a friend.
“We don’t have that,” I say.
“I thought we had everything,” she says.
“Our package doesn’t include that channel,” I say.
“I can’t believe there’s nothing on,” she says. “What about that other thing?”
“I know the exact thing you’re talking about,” I say. “The critically acclaimed thing.”
“Yes,” she says.
“We don’t have that either. We’d have to download the app, open an account, and pay,” I say.
“Oh,” my wife says, crushed.
“Or,” I say, “we could sign up for a free trial, watch the shit out of it for seven days and then cancel.”
“Yes,” she says. “Let’s do that.”
After an hour’s investigation with the remote in one hand and my phone in the other, followed by a mildly humiliating consultation with our youngest son, I concede defeat.
“What’s the problem?” my wife says.
“The problem is the smaller of the black boxes – let’s call it Box B,” I say. “It’s too primitive to support the relevant app, which is a bit of a dead end. Unless.”
“Unless what?”
“Unless we get a new box for £40, opening ourselves up to a whole new world of costly viewing.”
“That sounds like a complete waste of money,” my wife says.
“I agree,” I say. “And that’s before we even start signing up to … oops!”
“Oops what?”
“I accidentally pressed Buy Now.”
The next morning the chimney man is gone, his repointing work evidently completed. I can hear someone using a saw on a nearby roof, but my line of sight is obstructed by a large and still leafy oak. It is immensely frustrating; I have no choice but to work.
In the afternoon a small package arrives for me: the new Box B. It takes me until nightfall to connect it to the television and the internet, before I encounter a major stumbling block. The old Box B, I learn, was linked to an account that belonged to my wife.
“What was the password?” I say.
“For what?” she says.
We spend a further half-hour trying the kinds of passwords my wife favoured in 2015, before hitting on it.
“The two exclamation points at the end,” she says, “that was for security.”
Downloading the relevant app is simple, but signing up for the service is a task has to be completed on another device, which proves insurmountable. I call the middle one. He picks up his mother’s iPad and sets to work.
“It says you’ve already used your free trial,” he says.
“Did I?” my wife says. “When?”
“In 2019,” he says. “Have you been paying since then?”
“I don’t know,” my wife says.
“You’ve spent two years paying for a service we were technologically incapable of accessing?” I say.
“Possibly,” she says, smiling. But it proves not to be the case. A fresh account is created, after which the middle one drops the iPad on the sofa and leaves the room.
“Ready to start the seven days?” I say, thumb hovering over the remote.
“Are you joking?” my wife says. “It’s half past 10. I’m going to bed.”
Left alone with the new box, I try to find something else to watch, maybe a channel devoted to people working on chimneys. This proves impossible. Eventually I go upstairs to the youngest one’s room.
“Sorry if this sounds insane,” I say. “But do we have a password for Channel 4?”
The level gaze he fixes on me is withering in its mockery, without giving even a hint of whether the answer is yes or no.
