When I watch a drama with my daughter, I have to hold back my irritation at her constant sighs of disbelief and doubt. Whilst I’m enthralled by the action scenes, she is dismissive. When I openly sigh in awe at those reality defying moves, she sneers at them. As my heart flutters at the hero’s perfect behaviour towards his one true love despites feeling as enamoured as heck, my daughter scoffs at his portrayed self-control. Ultimately, where she’s looking for reality, I’m seeking conviction. In the world of drama, reality is equivalent to the ability of the cast and crew to make me believe for the duration of that episode, film, or drama, that what I am seeing is happening. They have to get me so immersed in the life presented on the screen in front of me that I am transported to whichever era, decade, land, or moment of life that I am watching. Reality, after all, is relative. This, of course, explains the significant gulf in perception between me and my daughter. But it’s all good. Because, when she invites me into her world of reality, into her version and vision of ‘truth’, I sigh, scoff, and pick at my finger nails in equal dismissal of what I am being told to suspend believe over.