In flight from Dot.Com

FADÓ, Fadó, my husband and eldest son were practically present at the birth of Dot.Com. Well, perhaps not at the actual birth, but, like dogs out of the traps, they raced headlong to attain first place in the queue to visit, worship and declare lifelong fidelity. They were well acquainted with the language that is now common parlance but back then it all sounded as confusing as whoever it was chattered eagerly and excitedly in the Tower of Babel.[private] At dinner one evening in particular, I recall both of them discussing spreadsheets. Excuse me? One spreads butter/jam/marmalade â€â€ even silage â€â€ but sheets? My other son and I â€â€ both 'people people' â€â€ yawned across the table at each other. Suddenly, the second son remarked: 'Mom, I wonder how the Spreadsheets FEEL?' The other two subsided and I still treasure among my all-time favourites that quick-witted and pithy comment. A guilty plea is entered, though, on my own behalf. Acquiring a pussy-cat is an important event in any animal lover's life and its name should be thoughtfully chosen. And so, a new pussy boasted the highly cutting-edge name of Dot.Com, a name that engendered much merriment. Her proud achievement was that she recognised three languages â€â€ her very name was quintessential techno-speak, English, naturally, and the cúpla focal as Gaeilge. 'Isteach sa ciseán leatsa!' saw her diving into her basket quicker than you could say 'Bubble's Burst!' I afforded her the dignity of changing her name to Granny, because, old-fashioned-Granny-like, she observed serenely all household activities from the cosy comfort of her ciseán. Granny has gone to her eternal animal reward while, with the demise of the Dot.Com bubble, countless people have been consigned to diabolical lives lived with the metaphorical flames of hell licking eternally at their feet. But, to parody that detestable line, Dot.Com hasn't gone away, you know. Her evil spawn has spread its tentacles into every aspect of our lives. Now, it must be acknowledged that technology has enhanced our lives in ways that would have been unimaginable to our parents and ancestors. Most of us could not conduct our lives without it. But, like all good things, it is the abuse and mis-use of it that is highly questionable. We're all too familiar with the horrors of cyber bullying â€â€ much too often leading tragically to suicide. And then, we've got to contend with the egotistical, ubiquitous FaceBookers, who appear to have little to do other than Twitter and Tweet their every insipid move and thought, whilst simultaneously tracking the equally vapid and vain lives of their cohorts. We parents of adult children have long realised that the true art of stimulating, engrossing conversation will more than likely die with us. We know that when our adult 'children' visit, our conversation should be strictly confined to verbal twitters and, preferably, tweets. They have no desire to listen to the minutiae and nuances of what they perceive as convoluted conversation. And then we wonder at the increase in Attention Deficit Disorder? Happily, those superb, engaging conversations are still 'mandatory' with friends. And speaking of friends ... I cannot answer for anyone else but I wonder am I the only one who is reluctant to telephone a friend spontaneously? I actually send a text first, to ask is it okay to call. I mean, what kind of nonsense is that? What on earth kind of lifestyle have we created for ourselves that has made us forget how to Seize the Day (Carpe Diem)? And as for visiting a relative/friend unexpectedly â€â€ has that neighbourly and homely custom departed like a retreating tide? I greatly appreciate the response to a certain query that my sister has given to me all our adult lives. You see, my life is what I like to call organic. That's a posh way of saying that I simply make it up as I go along â€â€ I wing it. Anyway, whenever I phone my sister on the spur of the moment â€â€ as is my wont â€â€ to ask if she's free, say, next Wednesday, she has unfailingly replied: ' I'll make myself free.' Now, that's my kind of language. Perhaps we should try to emulate WH Davies' poem, 'Leisure': What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. No time to stand beneath the boughs And stare as long as sheep or cows ... © Mary Hogan[/private]