Tim Dowling: Instagram arguments – and a missing coffee spoon

http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2015/jan/17/tim-dowling-wife-monitoring-email

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It’s late Sunday morning, and breakfast is crashing into lunch. I’m trying to put a chicken in the oven and make coffee at the same time. The oldest one is standing in the kitchen, hands in pockets and hair on end, being a companionable hindrance. His girlfriend is also here, as is his other friend. I think it’s nice having university students around, though I’m not entirely sure why they aren’t at university. My wife comes in with a plate in each hand.

“This place is disgusting,” she says, looking at the glasses and bottles that litter the kitchen table.

“Can I help?” the oldest one’s girlfriend says.

“I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” my wife says.

The oldest one’s girlfriend looks mildly alarmed. “About what?” she says.

“Occasionally I monitor his social media for quality-assurance purposes,” my wife says, indicating me with an elbow.

“She means she steals my iPad and spies on me,” I say. “All the time.”

“OK,” the oldest one’s girlfriend says.

“And I couldn’t help noticing,” my wife says, “that he got an invitation to your play.”

“Everyone got an invitation to my play,” the oldest one’s girlfriend says.

“I didn’t,” my wife says. “And I found it hurtful.”

“What play?” I ask. I’m preoccupied, because I can’t find the plastic spoon that lives in the coffee.

“It was a Facebook invitation,” the oldest one’s girlfriend says. “It just goes out.”

“I’m not on Facebook,” my wife says. “I quit.”

“That’s probably why you didn’t get an invite,” the oldest one says.

“But he got an actual email,” my wife says, pointing at me again.

“He got it from Facebook,” the oldest one says.

“Oh,” my wife says, looking at the floor. “I see.”

A brief silence follows.

“Why did you quit Facebook?” I ask.

“Because it’s a complete waste of time,” she says. “People posting bollocks all day. Anyway.”

“Now I have a bone to pick with you,” the oldest one’s girlfriend says, looking at my wife. Another brief silence follows. Ten years, I think. Ten years the same pink plastic scoop sits in the container marked coffee. Then one day it’s gone.

“Go ahead,” my wife says, folding her arms.

“You rejected my Instagram friend request.”

“Yes,” my wife says. “Yes, I did.”

“Twice,” the oldest one’s girlfriend says. “Why?”

“I have a cutoff,” my wife says.

“A cutoff?” the oldest one says. “How many Instagram followers do you have?”

“It’s not a person cutoff,” my wife says. “It’s an age cutoff.”

“A what?” the oldest one’s girlfriend says.

“I don’t accept followers under the age of 25,” my wife says. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Wait,” the oldest one says. “Why not?”

“I don’t want young people looking at my pictures,” she says. “It’s not appropriate.”

“I’m still on Facebook,” I say, to no one.

“What are your pictures of?” the oldest one’s girlfriend asks.

“You’ll never know,” my wife says.

“I’m on Facebook, but I ignore all friend requests,” I say. “I mean, I don’t even click ‘Ignore’. That would be too much trouble.”

“That’s so weird,” the oldest one’s girlfriend says. “You rejected me, and then I sent another request, and you just rejected me again.”

“I’m very upfront with everyone about my age cutoff,” my wife says.

“Isn’t it funny,” I say, “how you were both left feeling hurt by perceived breaches of social media protocol. And yet here in the real world…”

“Are you making coffee,” my wife says, “or just standing in my way?”

I stare into the coffee container. I’m just going to have to get another spoon from the drawer, I think. There’s nothing else for it.

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