Composite: Guardian Design; Getty Images
Until recently, most evenings, after my toddler had finally fallen asleep, I would flop on the sofa, turn on Netflix, and watch episode after episode until either my exhaustion or my husband would call time on this pitiful sight. Turning the television off, I’d experience a surge of self-disgust at how dry my eyes felt, and disappointment that the whole evening had disappeared. I would be momentarily stunned by my re-entry into a world in which there were no socially-awkward-but-brilliant private detectives, just a dishwasher that needed loading and a child who would be waking all too soon. I felt crushed by this return to my life (which was odd, because I am fortunate enough to like my life, most of the time).
I find it very easy to watch too much TV – and very difficult to watch the right amount. What is the right amount? I’ve been asking myself this question ever since I picked up an intriguing novel called Butter, by Asako Yuzuki, translated by Polly Barton, in which one of the characters asks herself that question.
