||[Oct. 20th, 2013|09:55 am]
Some men in masks board an underground train. A woman is tracking them. They carry identical attache cases. Are they suicide bombers? They catch sight of her. She punches the alarm. All hell breaks loose.|
And my mother switches the TV off.
As I expected she would. Anything too fruity; click. Anything unfamiliar: click. Her remote, her rules.
"I don't know what that was," she says in an affronted tone.
"Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D" I say.
"How on earth do you know?"
"Because they just told us."
We've had variants on this conversation many times before. Only now there's a difference. It's not that she won't pay attention, it's that she can't.
I find it hard to accept that we've crossed that line.