“Our heads are the last bastions of privacy”

MIDNIGHT, in bed. I’m random-googling on my laptop, while my husband turns the pages of his book with peevish flicks and martyred air.

He casts his book aside. “You’re breaking the no technology in bed rule,” he says. “And you were the one who introduced it. You said technology winds your brain up late at night, when it should be winding down.”

“Look,” I say, turning my laptop round, brain buzzing, “look at my Recent History.”

He rolls over, glances at it. “What about it?”

“It’s like… a neat and tidy synopsis of private thought.”

“Nunnight,” he says, decisively, turning off the light.

I close the laptop, snuggle down.

“I’m glad we don’t have Recent History buttons in the middle of our foreheads,” I say into the silent darkness, “wired into our brains, which strangers could click when we’re out and about.”

He gives another yawn, big and pointed.

“I mean our heads ,” I say, “are the last bastions of privacy in this world — a place of secret, uncensored thought. Thank god no one’s discovered a way to see inside them yet.”

“See,” he says, “you’ve wound your brain right up. Now you’re all up for a night-time chat.”

“I mean let’s imagine for a second that someone did discover a way to...”

“Or let’s not.”

“I mean, imagine if someone discovered a way, and I did have a Recent History button in the middle of my forehead and someone had pressed it while I was queueing in the Post Office today.”

“Why?” he mutters into his pillow “what were you thinking in the Post Office today?”

“Well first,” I begin, “I was thinking about the woman in front of me and how she must have cut her own fringe. Cutting your own fringe is always a mistake.”

Silence.

“Then, I started thinking about Masterchef.”

“From fringes to Masterchef,” he says wearily.

“I was starving,” I explain, “which must be why Masterchef came to mind, which made me think about food, which made me think about the man at the counter who was so incredibly fat that I thought, really, there’s no excuse for that. And then I thought about a quote I read ages ago.”

“What quote?” he sighs.

“A quote so stupid I never forgot it: ‘He who is overly attached to his family members, experiences fear and sorrow, for the root of all grief is attachment. Thus one should discard attachment to be happy.’”

Silence. He turns over in bed like a walrus dying from ennui.

“There was a woman with a screaming baby in front of me,” I say, “she was trying to calm it down. In a really nice way. Which made me remember the quote, and how sick I am of all this detachment stuff.”

“What detachment stuff?” he sighs.

“You know, all this emotional detachment stuff spiritual gurus bang on about because they’re childless, mortgage-less men who live halfway up Tibetan mountains.”

Silence.

“And then I played quite a fun game with myself in the queue called, ‘Who would you least like to be stranded on a desert island with?’ I decided I would least like to be stranded on a desert island with a spiritual guru.”

“Honestly,” I say, getting quite het up, “how on earth would any parent discard attachment to family members? Why would they want to? If you weren’t over-attached, you couldn’t be a parent. I mean, if you were simply indifferent to your children — imagine how laborious it would all be... I mean it’s easy to be detached when you live halfway up a mountain and have never clapped eyes on a toaster before. I’m sure if I lived...

“I’m just thinking,” he interrupts suddenly, his tone brightening, “about having a Recent History button in the middle of my forehead... and you clicking on it.”

“Oh?” I say, delighted; he seems to be getting into the swing of this night-time chat now.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m just thinking about what you’d find if you clicked on it. What you’d find in my drop-down box right now, I mean.”

“What’s in your drop-down box?” I say, intrigued.

“It has ‘for feck’s sake would she ever shut up and let me go to sleep’ in it.”