Pausing

Mater rarely sits long enough to watch a film, but I still insist, anyhow, on recommending she do so. Sit, I say, sit and take the time; ignore the telephone; ignore me if I call to check that you are watching it; immerse yourself in the film.
This evening she promised to try. But sitting for a whole two hours? Mater was wary.
I suggested the idea of a twenty minute interval where, mid-way through the show, Mater would pause the film, brew a cup of tea and have a biscuit.
It all sounded rather hopeful, but then I was struck by an all-too familiar vision of my mother: in my vision she becomes flustered in the dim light of the living room, squinting desperately at the remote control and making significant efforts to find the pause button which must be either too miniscule to identify or has been moved to another part of the device by magical means.
No sooner would she have the button located than it would be time to restart the feature. How terribly tragic to spend all of one's interval embroiled in a battle to find that rascally pause button!