There are few household emergencies capable of bringing an entire family to a standstill quite like a missing television remote.
One moment, everyone is relaxing peacefully. The television is on, drinks have been made, somebody has finally found something everyone is prepared to watch, and the evening appears to be progressing normally. Then somebody asks a perfectly innocent question: “Where’s the remote?” Immediately, everything stops. Nobody knows. The television might still be playing, but nobody is watching it anymore because an important piece of household equipment has disappeared within an area measuring approximately twelve square metres. The programme is forgotten. Conversations cease. A search operation begins. What makes this particularly ridiculous is that the remote was definitely here about thirty seconds ago. Nobody has left the room. Unless someone has opened a portal beneath the coffee table, it cannot possibly be more than a few feet away. Nevertheless, within minutes the search will expand to areas of the house that make absolutely no logical sense.
The first stage is always remarkably casual. Someone lifts a cushion. Nothing. Another person checks the coffee table despite everyone being able to clearly see the coffee table. Someone pats the sofa beside them. Still nothing. “Have you got it?” they ask the person sitting opposite, who responds with the sort of offended denial normally associated with being accused of financial misconduct. “No. Why would I have it?” Nobody said there was anything wrong with having it, but already tensions are rising. We are perhaps 40 seconds into the investigation and trust within the household is beginning to deteriorate. Attention turns towards the person who changed the channel last. This person is now officially the prime suspect. “You had it last.” An excellent observation. Unfortunately, the suspect has no recollection of what happened after that. “I put it down there.” They point vaguely towards an area containing an armchair, blanket, side table and approximately seventeen possible hiding places. Brilliant detective work.
Then comes the physical search. Cushions are no longer gently lifted. They are removed entirely. The sofa begins undergoing a level of disassembly normally only seen during a house move. Hands disappear down gaps between cushions, retrieving coins, crumbs, pens and objects that have apparently been missing since 2019. Someone finds a sock. Nobody knows whose sock it is or how it got there. Another person discovers a pound coin and quietly pockets it, introducing a secondary financial element to proceedings. Still no remote. The searcher puts an arm so far behind the sofa that there is now a realistic possibility the fire brigade may eventually be required. “It’s not down here.” Thank you. At least we’ve successfully ruled out the structural interior of the furniture.
This is the point at which accusations begin. “Who had it?” Everyone looks at everyone else. Somebody suggests the children. Somebody blames the dog, despite the dog displaying neither the interest nor opposable thumbs required to operate television equipment. The dog is nonetheless watched carefully. “Maybe it’s underneath him.” The dog is encouraged to move and looks understandably irritated at being implicated in an investigation with which it has absolutely no involvement. Someone else remembers seeing the remote on the arm of the sofa ten minutes earlier. This information is treated as a significant breakthrough despite providing no clue whatsoever about its current location. “YES, it was there!” Excellent. We have established where the remote used to be. Scotland Yard will be interested.
After five minutes, the investigation expands beyond the living room. This is where logic officially leaves the building. Someone checks the kitchen. Why? Nobody knows. Perhaps the remote fancied a yoghurt. Nevertheless, worktops are inspected. Someone opens the fridge, and everybody briefly laughs at the absurdity before secretly looking inside just in case. The bathroom is mentioned. Bedrooms are searched. Somebody walks upstairs calling, “Has anyone taken the remote up here?” as though the remote itself might answer. The entire house has now joined an investigation into an object that was definitely being used in the living room moments earlier. Nobody questions this because desperation has replaced reason.
Then somebody discovers that most modern televisions have buttons physically attached to them. For a brief moment, this sounds like a solution. “Can’t we just use the buttons on the telly?” Absolutely not. This misses the point entirely. The evening cannot resume until the remote has been found because this is no longer about changing the channel. It’s about winning. Somewhere inside this house is a small rectangular plastic object that has made fools of everyone, and it must be located. Somebody suggests using an app on their phone instead. Again, irrelevant. You could probably control the television by satellite at this stage and nobody would care. The remote has challenged the household’s authority.
Eventually, the search returns to the sofa because deep down everyone knows that’s where it is. Cushions are removed again, despite having already been checked. Blankets are shaken. The floor beneath the sofa is inspected with a phone torch. Someone gets down on their hands and knees and peers underneath, discovering enough dust to raise entirely separate questions about the household cleaning regime. Still nothing. Then the person who has been sitting quietly throughout most of the investigation finally stands up.
There it is.
On the sofa.
Exactly where that person had been sitting.
For several seconds nobody speaks. The remote has apparently spent the entire investigation underneath a human being who repeatedly insisted, with absolute confidence, “I haven’t got it.” The remote is retrieved and held in the air like evidence recovered during a police raid. “YOU WERE SITTING ON IT!” The accused immediately begins mounting a defence. “Well, I didn’t know!” This explanation is technically reasonable while simultaneously being completely unacceptable. Of course they didn’t know. That’s why everyone has just spent fifteen minutes dismantling the living room.
The sofa is reassembled. Cushions return to position. The mysterious sock is discarded. The dog is formally cleared of all charges. Everyone settles back down, slightly exhausted by an incident that should never have happened. The remote is placed carefully on the coffee table where everybody can see it. “Right,” someone announces. “Leave it there.”
Order has been restored.
The television is still playing.
Nobody has any idea what’s happening in the programme anymore.
So somebody reaches for the remote and rewinds it.
Twenty minutes later, another person walks into the room.
Looks around.
And asks:
“Where’s the remote?”
Everyone freezes.
Not again.
