We had been eagerly awaiting the last 10 episodes of the Netflix series "The Crown" for almost a year. The first four appeared in one fell swoop in mid-fall and we could watch them as we pleased. Jeff, who favors delayed gratification, would only watch one or two at a time, but I stayed up and viewed all four in a spasm of binge-watching. The second and last group of six was promised for the evening of Dec. 14.

We watched one or two of the final six episodes, and Jeff went to bed. The third came on, and I fell asleep in the middle of it as I often do in the evening, waking up an hour or two later and staying up two or three more hours after that. The TV often says, "We need to update; it's 3 a.m. – are you still watching?" This time, my eyes flew open as the last episode was apparently wrapping up. Then a black screen appeared with three short sentences in, to me, microscopically small white letters, like in an eye test. I quickly grabbed my glasses that had fallen off my face. I knew I had to act fast!

The sentences sort of read like this: 1) Have you seen enough of "The Crown" and don't need to see it again? 2) Admittedly, I don't remember what the second choice was. 3) I would like to see the episodes again whenever I want. Then I had to choose one answer before the whole thing dissolved into the ether. Scroll down on the remote control quickly and choose No. 3 as fast as I can, or it's over for seeing the episodes ever again!

What was that all about? Paying residuals to actors since the strike? I didn't know. Everything seems to be going up in price, as they all want a bite of our small Social Security raise for next year. A stingy Santa had spilled his sack of the coveted series, making me have to think quickly at 3 a.m.! It was hard for me to even see the tiny white letters. The last eye exam I had (and I've been wanting to tell you about this, so I'm working it in now) was during the final throes of the big COVID epidemic, and I had been vaccinated. I am really nervous about these eye tests.

However, that last time, the technician came into the darkened room wearing a mask and a plastic shield over her face. I was wearing the mandatory mask of the time, but she insisted on taping the mask tight to my face, with her fingers dancing gingerly around my nose and eyes. The tape kept popping up annoyingly, and my lenses fogged up. "I don't like this," I complained. "It's impeding my vision!" She implored, "Come on; it's OK. It will be over soon." Then she did the part where she held up a hand, low and to the side, asking me how many fingers I saw. It was really hard to tell, with the taped mask that seemed to have a life of its own, popping up and crackling. I was furious!

Anyway, getting back to my Comcast story, it seems this year there's Comcast Coal in my stocking. They sent a new list of prices that you have to be a forensic accountant to figure out, let alone read the never-ending list of price upgrades for channels you don't even recognize. And why do I have to pay for local sports when I don't watch local, or far-away sports, for that matter?

The other night, my cat Rusty was apparently sleeping on wires attached to the Comcast master box under a drop-leaf table supporting one of our TVs. He stepped on the on/off switch of the main power surge protector, which turned off all three TVs, plus our phone land lines and internet. He must be like one of those swamis who like to sleep on a bed of nails.

I tried to call Comcast/Xfinity on my flip phone. It was a "do-it-yourself with our automatic AI agent” event. I have found that I have to call and hang up, over and over again, and even use colorful cussing in order to get a live human being agent anymore. It is hard at my age to get down on my hands and knees at midnight and read the serial number on the bottom of the box and unplug a hornet's nest of wires. When I do get an agent, usually someone from the Philippines, they are the most patient people on the planet, even thanking me profusely when I tell them that my father served in their country in World War II, even if they are only about 30 years old themselves.

I am not a fervent Anglophile myself, even though my ancestry.com DNA profile said (most recently) that I am 64% British and Northwestern European. Maybe that's why I like viewing "The Crown." I was about to acquire a matador's cape after it mistakenly said that I was 3% Spanish. It seems like the results change all the time, maddeningly, like the Comcast prices that I have had to negotiate time after time, like Henry Kissinger. Comcast has cast its net into infinity.