Chatting is not a doddle on Skype
I could feel the snug enclosure of that outline sometimes, like at mealtimes, when the kitchen was noisy with chat, or going upstairs at night, when I’d sense the children sleeping in their beds, their breathing palpable in the darkness. Back when we all shared the same toothpaste, chatting was a total doddle. If we wanted to talk, bicker, shout or kiss, we could. We just did it. Any old where, any old how.
But now, since my children started scattering across continents, it’s different; there’s family life but no house-shaped outline to box it all in. And if we want to chat, we can’t do it any old where, any old how. We have to do it on Skype — or the “Now You See Me, Now You Don’t” app, which is a much better name for Skype, if you ask me. And chatting is not a total doddle. Not on Skype.
I’ve tried to like Skype in my own resentful, dogged sort of way but in doing so, have discovered a natural hatred for it. I can’t decide whether I hate Skyping more than I hated ringing the solar-powered public phone which hung off the wall in a remote Guyanese village, where my son spent his gap year. As a means for keeping the heart of family life beating across continents, I don’t know which is more useless — the cronky old solar-powered phone or Skype? For the life of me I don’t know. Maybe you can help me out:
2004. My husband and I are circling the house-phone, like children playing musical chairs; we’re awaiting weekly call from son in village situated eight hours by boat from nearest internet connection and doctor. Phone rings. My husband beats me to it, says “hi”, calls back son.
Son: “The sun’s going down so the phone’s gonna die and there’s a queue Dad. Everything okay at home?”
[Wife mouthing wildly in background, “Is he still taking his malaria tablets?”]
Husband: “Did you get my newspaper cuttings?”
Son: “Yeah, thanks Dad. Got the ones on the Ashes. What a series!”
Husband: “Did you get the cutting about United?”
[Wife mouthing, “Is he still taking his malaria tablets?”]
Son: “Which one?”
Husband: “The one about Van Nistelrooy.”
[Wife mouthing, “Is he still taking his malaria tablets?”]
Son: “The phone’s dying. There’s an outbreak of mumps at school.”
[Wife mouthing, “For Christ’s sake, is he still taking his malaria tablets?”]
Husband: “An outbreak of what?”
[Wife, mouthing, “Give me the bloody phone.”]
Son: “Mumps. Can you ask Mum if I had a mumps jab before I left?”
[Wife snatches phone]: “Love, are you still taking your malaria tablets?”
Phone dies.
2014. My husband and I are sitting up in bed, Skyping our daughter in Barcelona with my lap-top.
Daughter: “Hey Dad.”
Wife to Husband: “Move up. She can only see my ear.”
Husband: “Can you see us, love?
Daughter: I can see you but I can only see Mum’s ear.”
Call ends abruptly.
Wife to husband: “I told you she could only see my ear.”
Call reconnects.
Daughter: “Dad, can you see me now?”
Wife: “Can you see us, love?”
Daughter: “Mum, something awful happened.”
Call drops. Call reconnects.
Wife inadvertently presses ‘mute’ icon.
Wife: “What do you mean awful?”
Daughter: “Can you hear me? I can’t hear you.”
Husband to Wife: “Oh for God’s sake, you’ve muted our call. Shit, she’s gone.”
Husband, unmuting mute icon: “Oh. We can see you now. Are you okay?”
Daughter: “... es ... I’m ... ine. Bu ... I ... ad ... real ... assle ... and ... ord.”
Dad: “We can see you now, but can’t hear you.”
Daughter: “Wait...ere, I’m ... itching ... to ... oice-chat on my ... obile.”
Call drops. Call reconnects.
Daughter: “Our landlord’s gone psycho, Mum. Dad, are you still there?”
Call drops.
Call reconnects.
Daughter: “Our landlord locked us into our apartment... he freaked when we told him we were moving. He wouldn’t let us out for hours.”
Wife: “What do you mean locked you up?”
Call drops.
Wife to husband: “I’m losing my ******* mind. I’m phoning her off the landline and I don’t care what you say about the bloody bill.”
See what I mean, reader? For the life of me, I can’t decide.
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