On a normal night, most nights, my father will stroll passed the stove, the microwave and the cabinet. He'll be wearing his pajamas because, even though he works in the office apartment above the garage, his days on the phone are so entirely trying that he must change immediately. Once he enters the living room he will ask, "how far into this are you?" He will be referring to the whatever I'm watching on TV. If my answer is "Not far" or "it just started" that will be the moment when the phrase, the holy annoying prepositional phrase will be uttered: "Do you want to..."
Do you want to restart this? that will be the question, and I will bite my tongue, restarting the programme. In my head, that voice that sounds like mine but not quite because it is mottled by my brain, will rant: "No I do not WANT to! I might be WILLING to, or, if asked, I might not MIND to. I certainly do no WANT to. I am sitting here, I have a tea, the remote is in arms reach, and the television is distracting me from the piles of papers I have yet to write, because as a writer I hate writing things that I have to write! but I digress. The programme will restart and I will patiently rewatch. I do this because, it makes him happy, and making my father is happy is something to do in between making him proud. That and he pays for almost everything.
Then, he will utter the pharse