Last week, Sarge wandered into the bedroom, where I was reading and minding my own business. ‘I just bought something,’ he said. ‘What?’ I expected him to name some official noise-making device with numbers on the end of it. ‘You’re going to hate me. You’re never going to speak to me again. It’s terrible.’ ‘Whut?’ ‘I got an internet TV box. Blah, blah, blah (some numbers). And it has Netflix.’ I looked at him over my book. ‘It has what…
