My television recently died in suspicious circumstances.
If I was a betting man and this was Cluedo, I’d say the crime was committed in my lounge by my fiancée with a can of furniture polish after she recently stayed and decided my flat needed a spring clean.
Clearly, she denies this, stating that my television actually died two days after her visit, which is true.
But anyone with a vague knowledge of chemistry knows that spraying polish on top of a tv will take 48 hours to permeate into the holes behind it and mess with the internal electronics and cause a slow and painful death.
Obviously, I cannot make this accusation publicly, like in a regional newspaper, in case it triggers a psychotic reaction in her and I become the first human to die in a mysterious Mr Sheen related incident.
As a teenager, I dreamt of owning a mansion with a cinema room where I could invite friends’ round to watch my large VHS collection on a massive screen. Now, standing in Curry’s, I was looking at 75-inch TVs and thinking they are wider than some walls in my humble flat and they’d have to partially hang out of my window for me to view them properly. Where did my life go wrong?
I settled on a 43” Smart tv and, once home, I didn’t understand why I had to unnecessarily attach it’s 2 small legs and why it couldn’t just come fully assembled in a slightly larger cardboard box but it gave me a sense of super-hero-like achievement because apparently “leg attaching” is a two-person operation.
Once switched on, the smart tv proceeded to ask me more questions than some ex-girlfriends and I found myself setting up passwords for no apparent reason before it finally let me watch it. Surely, if it was that smart, it wouldn’t ask me anything. It would just know my mum’s maiden name.
Luckily, it didn’t ask how my last tv died? Otherwise my fiancée would have to come clean.
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