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“Who’s this?” I asked my friend as I entered his house and saw a stranger sitting in his living room.

“My son!”

“Hi!” I said, “Where’ve you been all these years?”

“At the computer!” murmured his father.

                       I watched as the young fellow stared at me than looked around, ran round the room searching for something like a dog looking for his favourite bone and then sat down waving his arms at his father.

“He’s not well is he?” I asked my friend.

“Withdrawal symptoms,” whispered my friend to me.

“Drugs?” I whispered back.

“No Chat,” said my friend.

“Chat as in conversation?” I asked.

“Chat as in MSM messenger, Yahoo, Google…” said my friend.

“Ah,” I said looking at my friend’s son, who was staring with haunted eyes at his bedroom.

“That’s where his computer used to be,” said my friend. “We’ve removed it from the house so he can get used to life without chat. He was getting addicted. Doctors orders!”

“Ah,” I said again looking at the boy, who suddenly lounged at me and started tapping my knees.

“Its ticklish,” I giggled. “What’s he doing?”

“He’s chatting on the internet,” said my friend. “He’s asking whether you have a computer at home?”

“No,” I giggled.

“You’ll have to chat back,” said my friend.

“How?” I asked.

“Type a message on his knee.”

“I can’t,” I said, “I don’t know how to type.”

                My friend’s son withdrew his hand from my knee in a flash, looked at me with disdain and went back to his chair. He reached across and tapped something onto his father’s knee.

“What’s he saying?” I asked.

“He’s saying you’re a barbarian.”
“Tell him I know how to talk with my mouth,” I said angrily.

                The boy looked at me with disgust and walked out of the room.

“You have upset my son,” said my friend.

“I’m sorry” I said. “Is there something I can do to make up for it?”

“You could learn to type,” said my friend.

“How would that help?” I asked.

“Then you both could chat,” said my friend.

“I prefer using my mouth,” I said.

 ”He’s forgotten how to do so,” said my despairing friend.

“Teach him again,” I said.

“He doesn’t want to,” whispered my friend, switching on the TV to watch Parliament in session, “he says his silence is better than the gibberish he hears!”

               Somehow I couldn’t help agreeing with him as I watched another politician deliver a meaningless speech.

 

 

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