Dot comms.

"We've got a busy weekend," I say to Francis.

"We have?"

"Yes. We've got Vicky and her family round on Friday - I bet her that she wouldn't be able to taste the difference between this meal and the last one I cooked for her."

"Why - are you cooking the same thing?" asks Francis, momentarily diverted.

"No - it's just at everything I cook tastes identical to everything else. I think it must be those super-strength stock cubes I'm using.

"Anyway, on Saturday your brother's ex-wife is bringing the children round for lunch."

"She is? Why didn't you tell me? I didn't know."

"You did," I say. "I e-mailed you a list of dates."

"Oh, an e-mail. Well, I'm not going to read that."

"Why not?" I ask. "We both work. And what with all the school events - the children's and mine, your work things, the Christmas socials, it's the only way either of us can keep track of what's happening. And it's easy to update."

"I just can't get my head round the idea that our prime method of communication with each other is e-mail."

"It's not," I say. "I'm communicating with you by e-mail, and you're not communicating at all."

He looks anguished.

"I don't want to hear about what's happening from my wife in an e-mail. I want you to come and tell me face to face."

"I think you're spending too much time in the office, darling," I say. "Because that's not a wife you're talking about. That's a secretary."

Then I disappear back to the computer, dignity intact, like the high-tech, low-life bitch I am. Or not.