Easy, I said, just unplug the Wi-fi.
Sit down and wait for the piercing scream of abject agony.
It works – try it.
Anyway, as I’ve been jotting down my Master’s dissertation by hand these last few weeks, The Teenager has been streets ahead of me, organising his A Level files at the stroke of a button.
He laughs at my hand-drawn mind-maps. He chortles when he sees my scribbles, turning his ipad towards me, shining with beautiful study notes.
I take off my fingerless gloves and turn the heating on. I gently explain to him that Great Art involves Great Suffering. I am trying to channel words and images into a superb piece of writing. I could in fact be The Next Great Novelist, given half the chance.
Until I’m rudely interrupted:
‘Muuuuuuuuum. Mum. Mum. What was it like BI?’
‘D’uh. Like. Before. Internet?’ Where you deprived? Did you feel, like, sad?’
‘Ah. No. We went to a place called A Library and looked up an Encyclopedia. That’s a book.’
‘You mean, if you wanted to find something out, you had to, like, order a book? Really?’
‘Oh M’God. ‘
I am a dinosaur. The Teenager cannot comprehend a life without facts at his fingertips. I could be impressed, chuffed even. Until he sends me bizarre links of what is trending on Twitter.
Take yesterday. The Teenager should have been researching British Politics. Instead, I had a breathless text, ‘ya seen Twitter?’
‘Not yet, have you cleaned your bedroom?’
‘So funny, have you seen, OMG, hysterical.’
‘Oh really? A kid?’
‘S’fun, s’like real.’