I am in a groove or what olympic athletes might call "the zone". Perhaps I have painted a picture of a sporty dad, whereas my olympic training was interrupted by an age-appropriate athritic knee and the bread-on the-table thang called work. My zones are more akin to traffic wardens and arguments if a limp constitutes a handicap.
I am on the world wide web and away with the Wiki-fairies, I am in blog-overdrive-heaven, a seed of teenage angst is being formed into an idea. I am in a zone where comedic genius forms words, which flow across the page like a syrup slowly knock-knocking its way to the edge.
A veritable delight of double entendres that could yet reach the mythical "triple". Except I know this is all in my mind and perhaps not on the written page; as readability is equivalent to undecipheravility, as I make so many typos that I should be writing tippos to maintain my consistency.
My fingers appears to be typing so many words so quick, so that mere mortals are wishing qwerty was the only known word in the universe to compete. Although to be fair I probably would spell it 'qwerz'.
Then like a dripping fear, a feeling is about me. I am aware of an unknown presence. It is with me. I feel the presence, ghostly, wanting to connect with me to a virtual world.
There is gathering of teenage-ness on my shoulder, there is the smell of the general grumpiness hovering about me like a cloak of idle curiosity manifest as interest in what I do. This is as rare as a school report with A+'s. There is a reading over my shoulder going on, as if to prove the 'C-' was a figment of a teacher imagination. There is an invasion of my laptop centred exclusion zone. My personal space is being shared. I am in unknown territory.
In a month of sundays, the teenager would not express a mild note of keeness in my life, but tip-tapping on a computer is obviously a magnet to the teenage brain. It is breaking down the walls of filial communication..
Hells bells, he probably thinks I am writing about him.
Ooops....Thank God for the typos.