For the record, I don’t exactly know how this happened, but my wife has accidentally hacked my son’s Instagram account. My best guess is that she fell over his discarded shoes, and one of her flailing arms punched in his 9 digit password.
Scrolling through his private messages it soon dawns on me that my son is confused by Instagram. He thinks you have to take a picture every time you want to make a comment. So he has been snapping shots of anything near him just to keep chatting. His timeline is peppered with shots of: vases, abstract views of the couch, brass ornaments and the bowl of crap on the sideboard. This was all followed up by an angelic shot of my son perched precariously on a roof.
“Whose roof is that?” shrieked my wife, looking at me for answers. I am struggling to recall the conversation I had with her when I revealed my superior knowledge of all the roofs in the local area.
I scrunched my forehead and took a more detailed look at him on the roof and said in astonishment, “Is he…is he wearing my slippers?”
Eventually we worked out who owned the roof and decided not to get in touch with them, as the stunt may have been our son’s idea. And anyway, for all we know, these parents may have accidentally hacked their son’s ipod, and could be stomping their way round to us, saving us a stomp round to theirs.
When I was a child in the 70s, I spent most of my time making dens in the local woods with my mates. Back then we made do with the basics, in fact we only wished for two things: one was a big spade so that we could dig a trap to snare intruders, and the other was a magic peephole into girls’ bedrooms.
Through the miracle of modern technology, Instagram has given my son a digital peephole into girls’ bedrooms, which he and his mates use to send pictures of vases to each other. Just in case you were wondering, he also has access to a spade. My son wants for nothing.
My wife and I are sat in the kitchen waiting for my son to return from school. We are faced with a conundrum: we dearly want to chastise him, but if we do, he will know that we’ve hacked his private account.
I look over to my wife, who is hunched over the ipod, her face etched with a mixture of smugness and guilt. It’s an expression that greeted me frequently during the start of our relationship, but no so much anymore; I only ever see it now after she’s eaten fish and chips.
“I can’t look at this anymore,” admits my wife, as she continues to scroll down the images. “We shouldn’t be prying into his private life,” scroll, scroll. “I feel terrible,” scroll, scroll. “Put the kettle on,” scroll, scroll…