"I'm thinking of joining The Face Book," Mother announces.
"Oh," I reply.
What the Dickens has prompted this? Has Mother read something in the Torygraph about Trojans and taken it to mean that the Ancient World is now accessible via the web?
My mind goes into freefall as I imagine her going back through my timeline, reading the inanities I have posted for the past five years (not to mention finding her way on to this blog). All I can think is, "I must stop this. I must stop this NOW."
"I thought it would be the best way to keep in touch, since I never see you or speak to you," she presses on.
I hold my breath to prevent myself from reminding her of our eight-day stay which is still so fresh in my mind, I feel I have driven away from my childhood home only seconds ago.
"And I never get to speak to my granddaughter now that she has become" [audible shudder] "a TEENAGER."
"Ah, well she's not likely to respond on Facebook either," I say, thinking OH MY GOODNESS, IF MOTHER CATCHES EVEN A GLIMPSE OF DAUGHTER AND HER FRIENDS ON FACEBOOK WE WILL HAVE TO GET ON THE NEXT SHUTTLE TO MARS TO ESCAPE THE FALL-OUT. "And the other thing is I'm not sure you've got the time to check all the news feeds and so on," I continue.
"News Feeds?"
"Yes, and then there's all the palaver of what to stick on your wall and who to befriend or de-friend and whether or not you've been poked."
I hardly know what any of these things mean myself, so I am hoping this is jargon on the level of Dawkins-esque genetics for Mother.
"Ah," says Mother.
"And then there's the added problem that Dad turns the WiFi off after ten o'clock every night, so you would only have a limited window in the evening to update your status anyway--"
"So what exactly is The Face Book for anyway?" Mother says, cutting into my mounting hysteria.
"Oh, it's a load of nonsense really," I say. "To be honest I think you would find it rather silly. It's just banter. And chit-chat." I carefully emphasise two words I know will immediately cast a pall on the idea of joining the social network.
"What kind of - banter?" Mother says. Thank heavens. I can hear her eyes narrow as she speaks.
"Well, to give you the most recent example," I say, "there's been a lot of talk this week about the new series of Dr Who--"
"That rubbish?!" Mother spits. "Oh well, in that case. I won't bother."
Phew. That was close.
"I think I might start Twittering instead."
"Oh," I reply.
What the Dickens has prompted this? Has Mother read something in the Torygraph about Trojans and taken it to mean that the Ancient World is now accessible via the web?
My mind goes into freefall as I imagine her going back through my timeline, reading the inanities I have posted for the past five years (not to mention finding her way on to this blog). All I can think is, "I must stop this. I must stop this NOW."
"I thought it would be the best way to keep in touch, since I never see you or speak to you," she presses on.
I hold my breath to prevent myself from reminding her of our eight-day stay which is still so fresh in my mind, I feel I have driven away from my childhood home only seconds ago.
"And I never get to speak to my granddaughter now that she has become" [audible shudder] "a TEENAGER."
"Ah, well she's not likely to respond on Facebook either," I say, thinking OH MY GOODNESS, IF MOTHER CATCHES EVEN A GLIMPSE OF DAUGHTER AND HER FRIENDS ON FACEBOOK WE WILL HAVE TO GET ON THE NEXT SHUTTLE TO MARS TO ESCAPE THE FALL-OUT. "And the other thing is I'm not sure you've got the time to check all the news feeds and so on," I continue.
"News Feeds?"
"Yes, and then there's all the palaver of what to stick on your wall and who to befriend or de-friend and whether or not you've been poked."
I hardly know what any of these things mean myself, so I am hoping this is jargon on the level of Dawkins-esque genetics for Mother.
"Ah," says Mother.
"And then there's the added problem that Dad turns the WiFi off after ten o'clock every night, so you would only have a limited window in the evening to update your status anyway--"
"So what exactly is The Face Book for anyway?" Mother says, cutting into my mounting hysteria.
"Oh, it's a load of nonsense really," I say. "To be honest I think you would find it rather silly. It's just banter. And chit-chat." I carefully emphasise two words I know will immediately cast a pall on the idea of joining the social network.
"What kind of - banter?" Mother says. Thank heavens. I can hear her eyes narrow as she speaks.
"Well, to give you the most recent example," I say, "there's been a lot of talk this week about the new series of Dr Who--"
"That rubbish?!" Mother spits. "Oh well, in that case. I won't bother."
Phew. That was close.
"I think I might start Twittering instead."
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