A friend of ours is visiting and working on her thesis. Early yesterday evening she came downstairs with the look of one martyred and suffering nobly for her cause and handed me her phone so that she couldn’t check Twitter or FB while she was supposed to be working on her thesis.
Several hours later, just before bedtime, she retrieved the phone and went into her bedroom. Moments later she came back out saying, “Catie? *CATIE*?!” in increasingly alarmed tones. Ted ran out to see what was wrong and she kept saying, “CATIE?” and I finished putting my PJs on and ran out and she said, “CATIE, WHY IS MY TWITTER FEED FULL OF PEOPLE SAYING PRIME MINISTER DAVID CAMERON HAD SEX WITH A DEAD PIG?!?!”
Ted and I, who had both independently imagined that Young Indiana had somehow managed to delete her entire thesis, both stared at her speechlessly and thought, more or less, “Oh, thank God,” because the British prime minister having sex with a dead pig was much, much less awful on our personal scale of things that could be bad than our son deleting somebody’s thesis. Our guest, unaware of our internal panic, was meantime saying, “*Why*, Catie? *Why*!?”
When I regained the powers of speech I confessed I did not know the answer to that question, as I had not been on Twitter any more recently than she had, and that she should go to bed. She did, but she said, “I’m never giving you my phone again!” on the way. :)
THANKS A LOT, DAVID CAMERON. :)