“Watch me,” the remote urges.
Still in his pyjamas, he floods porridge with maple syrup and cream, slumps onto the sofa, and tunes in the breakfast show.
Beer and fries will accompany the afternoon soaps. The evening menu is single-malt Scotch. Neat.
But he studies his profile and grimaces.
He opens the door, starts to shovel the snow, and collapses.
His children sell the TV.
Its new owner drenches his sugar puffs with treacle.
“Watch me,” whispers the remote.
The snow that smothers his car whispers to him, too. So he struggles upright, grabs a shovel, and disappears into the blizzard.