1. iPad

The entryphone buzzed. Billy and Mabel immediately started screaming, gleefully mind you, but it was still screaming, much to Bridget’s chagrin - they’d been behaving so well, having agreed on a TV show for once (Shaun the Sheep), and were actually eating the carrot sticks she’d maimed into pieces for them. Of course that would all go out the window once Dada got home.

“Hello, darling,” Mark’s voice came through, tinny and warm, and Bridget could only giggle in her Smug-Married way.

“HELLO DADA!” Mabel shrieked from the floor, where she was wrapped around Bridget’s knees.

“May I come up?”

Without a word, Bridget pressed the button to let him in. She disentangled herself from the child at her feet and padded over to the door. Mabel followed closely behind, yelling “Dada’s home, Dada’s home!” like a mantra. Billy bounded over the back of the sofa (“Careful, love, you might twist your ankle again”), joining in with Mabel’s chanting to form a noisy Jones-Darcy cavalcade that made its way toward the front door.

Bridget picked up Mabel, placing a kiss in her hair, just as the key turned in the lock. Mabel clapped her hands excitedly.

Mark appeared as the door swung open, his attaché set down by his feet, flourishing his arms not unlike a balloon man at a car yard. “Dada’s home!” he shouted. Billy ran up to him, his arms outstretched. Meeting his embrace, Mark swung Billy up to eye level, arm tucked securely around the boy’s middle. “Good evening, good sir!” He proclaimed, making Billy squirm delightedly in his grasp.

“And good evening to you, my lady,” Mark stepped closer to the girls, addressing Mabel. He planted a quick kiss on her nose, eliciting a giggle, and then leaned to place a more tender kiss on Bridget’s cheek.

“Hello, love,” he beamed.

“Welcome home,” Bridget grinned back. Something sticking out of his attaché behind him caught her eye. “What’s that in your bag?”

Mark put Billy down. “The firm gave me something for... productivity,” he said, a look of consternation crossing his features.

“Productivity?” Bridget let Mabel down, and the girl clung to Mark’s left shin. He patted her hair fondly.

“Yes, everyone in the office received one. Some sort of, ah, pad,” he said, retrieving his attaché, one leg dragging on the floor with the weight of a human child on his calves. Closing the door behind him, he pulled the white box out completely.

Bridget raised her eyebrows. “An iPad?”

“That’s the one,” Mark said, squinting at the box. “I’m afraid I’ll need a bit of help, ah, operating it.”

She took it from him, admiring the clean packaging. “You make a start on dinner for the children, and I’ll get it running.”

And get it running she did. Cheekily, she set the lock screen wallpaper to a picture taken of herself in front of the mirror, poking her tongue out at the camera. As she and Mark waited for the pasta to cook, she showed him how to set a combination lock, and set up his work email.

“You can also use it to watch videos, or go on Facebook,” she explained, pointing at the icons on the home screen. Mark nodded, his face the picture of total concentration. “It has a better camera than your phone, I think, so you can take pictures here,” she tapped the Camera open, “just tap this to take a picture,” she pointed the back of the iPad at his face and got an extreme closeup of his glasses and nose. “See?”

He looked at the photograph, brow furrowing. “Not particularly flattering, is it?”

“Well, you can take nicer pictures of flowers, or something,” Bridget said.

“Right.”

The stove behind them hissed as the pasta boiled over, and the iPad was set down in a hurry.

It was picked up again much later that evening, with both children successfully tucked in and put to sleep. Mark took it with him to the the lounge room, where Bridget was slouched on the sofa, scribbling away in her diary. He took a seat at the opposite end of the couch, and she shifted so her legs were splayed across his lap.

“Comfortable, are we?” Mark raised his brows at her.

“Quite,” Bridget said, without looking up from her writing.

“Me too.” Mark gave her foot a fond squeeze before turning his attention to the device in his hand.

Screen on - button on the side. Combination - tap in order, 1-1-0-9 (November ninth, Bridget’s birthday, and the anniversary of the Blue Soup Fiasco). For email, tap the blue icon with the envelope. Move the words with one finger, swiping up and down. Typing just like on a computer but a smaller screen without proper buttons.

Feeling accomplished, Mark responded to an email from Jeremy with little trouble. Out of the corner of her eye Bridget could see him smiling to himself, a satisfied look on his face.

“Did you say you could watch videos on this?” Mark asked, once he’d exited the email app.

“Mm,” Bridget hummed, obviously in the middle of writing a sentence, “like when Billy shows you those cat videos on my laptop, just use YouTube.”

“Right.”

Several minutes passed. Bridget closed her diary, done for the day, and cast a glance at Mark. He had his brow furrowed deeply, and was swiping up and down in the Settings menu of his iPad, looking like someone had just handed him a spoon and told him to fix his car with it.

“Alright, Mark?” she said cautiously.

He looked at her haplessly.

“Bridget,” he said, “how do I open the YouTube on this contraption?”

She bit back a laugh and scooted closer to him, wrapping her arms about his middle. “It’s a red icon, with a little white triangle,” she navigated him to the correct app, “there.”

“Ah.” He nodded, then turned to look at her properly. Their noses were mere centimetres apart. Bridget licked her lips, her gaze boring into Mark’s. He smiled, and said, “I’m afraid I’ve quite forgotten what I wanted to watch.”

Bridget grinned. “You could watch me hop into bed with no clothes on, and then perhaps follow suit?”

Mark put the iPad down onto the armrest, clicking the screen off. “I could indeed.”

2. Refrigerator

“Mummy will be home soon,” Mark cooed, desperately trying to stop Mabel’s anguished wails with bits of apple and cheese. He proffered her a sippy cup. “Juice?”

“Mummy!” Mabel shrieked, and batted the cup to the kitchen floor. Cloudy apple juice puddled on the tile, seeping into his socks. Mark sighed.

“The mop is in the cupboard next to the fridge,” Billy advised from behind his book.

“Yes, thank you,” Mark muttered, fussing about with a hunk of pear that had affixed itself to his collar. “You need to have a drink, my sweet,” he said to Mabel, holding a bit of fruit to her mouth. She pursed her lips closed, looking eerily like a pouting Bridget, and Mark's heart melted a little. “I'll get you a little bit of water, hmm?”

“Mummy says not to use the tap because it's not filtered,” Billy supplied helpfully.

“Then where, pray tell, do I get my water?” Mark said patiently, fetching a plastic cup from the cupboard.

“The new fridge has a button thingy.”

Mark rounded on the fridge. They'd upgraded from the grubby stainless steel box that had defrosted (without their knowledge) three tubs of ice cream and a lot of frozen peas, along with a week’s worth of groceries, and had a shiny double-door fridge with a screen and dispenser put in its place. With, of course, various bits of Jones-Darcy artwork held up by alphabet magnets. Mark stared at the blue screen, puzzled by its various icons and lights.

“The water droplet,” Billy said.

“Right.” Mark stared at the screen a bit longer, cup still in hand. He could only see some wiggly lines, three squares (ice cubes?) and a group of four water droplets. That had to be it. He placed the plastic cup gingerly under the dispenser and prodded the little group of droplets.

Success!

His victory was short-lived, however, as the surface of the water reached the lip of the cup, and he hastily prodded the icon again  only to double the water’s jet pressure. Icy water splashed from the cup onto his shirt, and he jumped back, sloshing more water onto the floor as it split from the cup in his hand. He put the now-half-empty cup of water on Mabel’s high chair and looked helplessly at the water now gushing from the fridge door. “I’ll be needing that mop, I think,” was all he could think to say to nobody in particular.

“It’s going on the floor!” Billy yelled, book forgotten.

“Pool! Pool!” Mabel said gleefully.

“Help Dada gather this up, Billy,” Mark said, cupping his hands under the stream - stupid - his sleeves were wet now, and more water splashed onto the kitchen tile. It was much more than just a puddle now. The apple juice from before mingled with the flow.

Billy ran over and promptly slipped, falling backwards onto the seat of his pants, which immediately soaked through. He squealed, jumping back up, and slipped back down. Mark yelped in alarm, but Billy was laughing far too gaily to be in any pain.

“Oh, Christ,” Mark said, and gingerly stepped around his son, in search of a bucket or similar large container to try and stop the water. He rooted around frantically in the cupboards as the water on the floor spread all around the kitchen. The drain in the far corner started slurping as the water spilled across its opening. Mabel imitated the gurgle, banging her fork on her high chair table.

Billy was kicking the water around, looking every bit as though he was jumping in puddles in the rain. Some of it splashed onto Mabel, and she cried out happily - “Want play, want play!” - so Billy fished her out of the high chair, despite Mark’s protests.

“Careful, you’ll slip and drop her-!”

Billy slipped, and dropped Mabel. Luckily it was back onto his bottom, and Mabel fell harmlessly onto his lap. Mark took a deep breath, squelching his way back to the fridge door. “How do I turn this off?” he asked Billy, but his children were too busy splashing each other to answer him. Mark regarded the blue screen once more, baffled by the pictures and lights, and tapped three buttons at once in desperation, the image of his children swimming in neck-deep water as it filled the kitchen terrifying him.

For one brief, shining moment, the water stopped; a second later, about two dozen ice cubes tumbled out and joined the puddle on the floor - and the water resumed its torrent just as strongly as before.

Mark swore.

“Dada! You can’t say that! Only mummy says that word!” Billy exclaimed.

“Sorry, sorry,” Mark said, despairing at the mess in front of the fridge. He mashed the button with the water droplets one more time with a little more force than was probably necessary, and - sweet, blessed relief - the water stopped.

“Awww,” Mabel and Billy said together.

“Right,” Mark said, turning to look at them properly now that the panic had subsided. The two looked like they’d taken a dip in a pond, fully clothed. “We’d best get you both in the bath, and I’ve got to find the mop-”

“It’s in that cupboard, remember?” Billy pointed next to the fridge.

“-before mummy gets home, alright? We’ll get you both cleaned up. The kitchen too.”

As he said that, the entryphone buzzed.

Mark’s face fell just as Mabel’s eyes lit up. “Mummy!”

3. Rental car

Bridget’s phone chirped. “Hello, Mr Darcy,” she said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Hello, Bridget. I don't suppose you're busy?”

“Are you alright? You sound - panicked.”

“Well. Quite. I’ve, ah,” there was a distant thump and some beeping, “I’m in a spot of bother.”

Bridget swung round in her office chair, eyes tearing away properly from the presentation she'd been working on. “What? Where are you?”

There was a pause as the beeping continued, and some muffled cursing that sounded like, “Where indeed.” Mark said into the phone, “Do you know where my car is going?”

“Your - uh, the one that got rear ended is going to the workshop, I'd imagine,” Bridget replied, confused.

“No,” Mark said, and then, “oh bollocks.”

Bridget waited.

“I'm in my rental car,” Mark explained, the beeping in the background getting louder, “which I was told was the latest in car technology, some… Tesla model. Truth be told it might as well be a fucking spaceship.” The beeping was incessant now. “And I'm a bit…”

A pause, and Bridget could hear something not unlike a fist hitting a dashboard angrily, and the beeping stopped.

“...trapped,” Mark finished, sounding exhausted.

“You've locked yourself in?” Bridget bit her lip, suppressing a giggle.

“Well, yes,” Mark said, “which would be a simple matter of calling for help to come assist me, but I'm not exactly... parked - anywhere.”

Bridget stood, pacing round her desk, the blood starting to drain from her face. “So you're saying…”

“The selling point for this car,” Mark sounded like he was hyperventilating, “is the self-driving autopilot feature.”

“Oh good gracious fuck,” Bridget gasped, turning a few heads in the office. She waved them away, sitting back down hard on her chair. She lowered her voice to a harried whisper, “So where the fuck are you?”

“If the map on this bloody screen is correct, and my sense of direction still remains true, I'm somewhere near Brixton.”

“Well, shit.”

“Quite.”

Bridget could hear Mark breathing heavily.

“Every time I try to take the damned wheel it beeps at me. Pressing the key fob doesn't work. I don't know how to operate this computer on wheels, Bridget,” Mark sounded defeated, and there was a faint tremor in his voice. “Whatever happened to a fucking gear stick and mechanical ignitions?”

“What does the screen in front of you say?”

“Which one?” Mark said petulantly. “There's three. Fucking three! That's more than we have at home if you don't count our bloody phones!”

“Any of them,” Bridget coaxed.

“Right. Well one of them is a helpful map informing me that I am practically in China,” Mark huffed, “the other is a picture of the car from above, so I know exactly what this prison looks like from the air -”

“That'll assist the rescue party in their helicopter,” Bridget couldn't help it.

“Yes,” Mark gritted his teeth, “and the third is the clock kindly letting me know that I am now forty minutes late to work.”

Bridget tried not to laugh. She did. But picturing Mark in his suit, trapped like a caged animal in a futuristic vehicle, scratching at the windows while it calmly drove him halfway to Wales, and she was gone. She covered the end of her phone and guffawed.

“Bridget?”

She snorted through her giggles.

“Are you laughing at me?”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “No!” she shrilled, and at a confused look from Miranda burst into another round of laughter.

“I tell you, Bridget, I've tried everything,” Mark’s voice was heated, and Bridget could tell he was getting truly pissed off. She could only laugh harder. “I can't touch the steering wheel, I can't roll down the windows, I can't even open the door and fucking jump out. All I want to do is turn the bloody - autopilot - OFF!”

There was a beep - a different, more pleasant one this time, followed by a muffled computerised voice saying “Autopilot disabled!” There was a a clattering sound, and Mark's voice was suddenly distant - “Oh, crikey,” - and there was a squealing of brakes, a honk, silence.

Bridget stopped laughing. “Mark?”

There was no answer for some moments, but Bridget could hear rumbling and clicking in the background. Her heart pounded, a million awful scenarios playing themselves out in her head. She was just getting to the part where she would find Mark's corpse on the side of the A3 when his voice said from far away, “Bridget? Not sure if you're still there, I'm afraid I've dropped the phone down the side of the seat,” ah yes, that explained why he sounded distant, and why he was yelling fervently.

“I've started driving again. I think the car heard me shouting,” and Bridget put a hand to her mouth to stifle an unladylike guffaw. “I'll call you back when I figure out how to get back to work! Love you!”

Bridget hung up, tears of laughter streaming down her face.

4. Home security system

Mark Darcy [18:48]: Hello Bridget. I know you’re busy but I’ve got a bit of problem

Mark Darcy [18:49]: What is the security code to enter my own damned house?

Mark Darcy [18:52]: Is it supposed to beep as soon as I press a button?

Mark Darcy [18:57]: No windows open, for once. Where do we keep the spare key again?

Mark Darcy [18:58]: aadj ,./ dk

Mark Darcy [18:58]: Sorry, not sure how that happened.

Mark Darcy [19:03]: I tell you what, it’s bloody freezing.

Mark Darcy [19:04]: Which I suppose explains why there are no windows open.

Mark Darcy [19:07]: Please pick up your phone.

Mark Darcy [19:09]: I’ve decided I will try the number again. Whose birthday date did we use?

Mark Darcy [19:10]: Apparently not mine.

Mark Darcy [19:11]: Nor yours.

Mark Darcy [19:13]: One of the lights has just lit up red after I entered Mabel’s birthday. Why is it blinking? I still can’t get in.

Mark Darcy [19:19]: fukc

Mark Darcy [19:33]: Apologies. I panicked

Mark Darcy [19:34]: Apparently it triggers a silent alarm and calls the police. All sorted now.

Mark Darcy [19:37]: But I’m still locked out of the damned house.

Mark Darcy [19:46]: I’m going to catch a cab to Gianni’s. Call me when you get this please.

(Bridget called him an hour later when she located her phone at the bottom of her bag. She, Billy and Mabel rushed to Gianni’s from Tom’s - he and Eduardo threw a birthday party for their ‘gayby’, and Mark had finished work too late to bother attending - and found Mark pouting over a half-finished bowl of ravioli, looking utterly defeated. The four of them went home, Bridget doing her best to console Mark, and he was in much higher spirits as they pulled up in the drive. Mabel, bless her soul, asked to be picked up just as they got to the front door, and happily pushed 3-2-7-2-9 into the numpad faster than you could say “Darcy”. The front lock buzzed chirpily and swung ajar to allow them entry, and Mark’s scowl didn’t leave his face til much later that evening, when Bridget appeared at the foot of their bed in nothing but bunny ears and a fluffy tail.)

5. Virtual reality goggles

“What on Earth is that on your head?”

Bridget yelped in surprise, tearing off the headset to see Mark’s bewildered face staring at her from across the room.

“You scared the sh-” Bridget glanced over to Mabel, who was napping on the sofa a few feet away. Bridget lowered her voice to a whisper. “You startled me.”

Mark strode over, snaking his arms about her waist. She leaned into him, nuzzling close, her fright forgotten. “Sorry,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair, “but you looked absolutely ridiculous.”

Bridget pulled away, indignant. “I’ll have you know I’m testing the very latest technology afforded by Hard News!” She pulled the black headset off her head completely. Mark could see her phone was strapped into it, its screen pointing at a pair of alien-looking goggles. He frowned at it.

“A high-tech blindfold with a phone holder?”

Bridget shot him a glare. “It’s called virtual reality, and it’s rather lovely,” she said grumpily, “I was just soaring over the Alps, I’ll have you know!”

“Right.” Mark sat down gently on the sofa, stroking Mabel’s hair softly as she napped. He smiled at her sleeping form, then looked over to Bridget.

She pouted at him. “You don’t seem convinced.”

He shook his head.

“Come here, you try it,” Bridget said in an insistent whisper. Mark made a face. Bridget made the same face back at him, and made a ‘come hither’ gesture, flapping her hands.  

They held a staring contest for about twenty seconds before Bridget won, as per usual; Mark eased himself up and over to her. His mouth in a thin line, he held his hand out, palm up, sighing. Bridget held up a finger and extracted her phone from the contraption, and after a few taps and swipes, put it back into the headset. She handed it to him, a gleam in her eye.

“You might need to adjust the straps,” she advised quietly. He did so, and gingerly placed the thing on his head, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“I can’t see a bloody thing,” he grunted, after a few seconds.

“Move your head around.”

He looked round to his left and to his right, the bulky headset moving around comically in front of his face; he twirled on the spot, and suddenly his whole body flinched. It took everything in him not to yell, knowing Mabel was asleep in the same room.

Bridget placed a hand on his arm, but he jerked back. “Where am I?” he hissed.

“The… plains of Africa?” Bridget said, confused. “What do you see?”

“I’m in - a dark room, I think,” Mark said, a quail in his voice. “There’s - I’ve a torch attached to my head. It turned itself on and-” he spun on the spot abruptly. “Bridget, there’s someone here.”

Bridget put a hand on his shoulder as he turned frantically, but he jumped away, squeaking. She stifled a laugh as she glanced at Mabel.

“I think I chose the wrong demo,” Bridget said, but Mark didn’t appear to hear. He was reaching out in front of him, hands flailing dangerously close to the floor lamp. Hastily, she grabbed Mark’s upper arms from behind him and turned him around, ignoring his wince. “Just stay still for a moment,” she instructed. He obeyed, his fists clenched stiffly at his sides.

Bridget took the opportunity to scoop up Mabel and tuck her into the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her. As she re-entered the loungeroom, she took in the sight of Mark’s steely form by lamp. He was taking very shallow breaths.

“Mark?” She called.

“Bridget,” he said, “I don’t know where in this room you are, but I think something is behind me.”

She took a few cautious steps toward him. “Do you want to take the headset off?”

“I think it’s moving!” Bridget noted the rising panic in his voice and could only watch helplessly as he jerked forwards, gasping in fright. “It’s - around me-” Mark ran three steps and promptly bumped into the sofa, stumbling. “Oh, Christ.” He spun on the spot and staggered in Bridget’s direction, his hands clutching at nothing in front of him. “Get that candle, I can barely see,” he was babbling, and Bridget couldn’t decide if she should intervene lest he react hysterically.

“Mark, watch the-!” Too late. One of Billy’s larger books that was strewn on the floor took Mark by surprise, and he slipped, swearing as he did so.

Bridget knelt at his side, prying the goggles off his face; he was sweating and his eyes looked crazed. “Oh, shit,” she mumbled, tossing the headset aside unceremoniously. She kept one arm around him as he sat up, looking dazed.

“The plains of Africa,” he said, eyes boring into hers accusingly.

“I must have mis-tapped,” she said, running an apologetic hand through his hair. “That must have been the Scream Room demo. Right next to Safari Adventure on the list, you see.”

Mark nodded, his face worryingly shell-shocked. He shifted, and Bridget took a step back, holding a hand out to help him up. As he made to get on his feet, however, he choked out a “Fuck!” and landed back on his arse.

A hand flew up to cover her mouth. “Are you alright?”

Mark’s face was screwed up, and he inhaled deeply. “Ankle,” he bit out.

“Oh, God,” Bridget said.

“I could do with some water,” Mark said heavily, keeping his eyes shut. “My - everything is spinning-”

“Wait here.” Bridget nipped into the kitchen and filled a glass from the fridge door, and when she returned, Mark was rubbing his temples hard. “Are you… all right?”

“Ankle and-” Mark took a deep breath, “I think… migraine,” Bridget took one of his hands gently, pressing the glass to his palm. He gripped it, white-knuckled, and said, “Motion sick.”

“Oh, Mark, I’m so sorry,” Bridget wailed, rubbing his knee consolingly. “If I’d known-”

“Shhh,” he gritted out, “too loud.”

Bridget rubbed circles onto his back, feeling terribly guilty. Mark sipped slowly at the glass.

“Bed?” she said, quietly as she could. He made a noise of agreement, and she offered him a push towards the loungeroom door.

Mark scooted slowly on his backside, gingerly placing the glass an arm’s length away on the floor. Bridget followed, walking on her knees, one hand on each of his shoulders. She maneuvered him through the door and down the hallway as he crawl-scooted along the floor, looking awfully like a dog with worms in its backside. She was too ridden with guilt to laugh, though she was careful to document to visual in her mind for later.

By some miracle of God, Mark was able to scale the side of the bed and sprawl himself on the covers, one arm blindly feeling for a pillow, which he promptly covered his head with, and let out a long groan. Bridget could only offer him the lightest of pecks on the arm before turning the light off and shutting the bedroom door, utterly contrite.

+1. Instagram

Bridget lounged on the sofa in her bathrobe, hair in a messy bun, the telly turned down to a soft murmur. She loved playdates. She especially loved playdates that took place outside of the house. And most especially the playdates that took place outside of the house with other parents providing supervision. And, perhaps most of all, she absolutely loved the fact that lovely Mark would be the one to pick up the children from said playdate, which meant Bridget had an entire three hours to herself.

Naturally, she'd spent ninety minutes of that in a salty bath (Shaz had told her of the remedial power of epsom salts, and having forgotten to hunt them down at Tesco, she’d improvised with the fancy Himalayan pink rock salt from the kitchen cupboard - that the bathtub was now lined with rose-coloured crystals that wouldn't scrub off easily was a problem for another day), and then opted to spend the remaining ninety minutes luxuriating in the lounge room to enjoy the quiet, a mug of tea in hand, her phone in the other. She was scrolling idly through her Facebook feed when her phone pinged with a notification.

Instagram: Mark Darcy (mark.f.darcy) is now following you.

Bridget jolted upright.

“Bollocks!” Her tepid tea spilt over onto her hands and bathrobe, and she placed the near-empty mug on the floor, ignoring the dripping tea cooling on her skin.

“Since when does he use Instagram?” she exclaimed out loud, tapping at the pop-up notification. Mark’s profile came into view, and she was amazed to see an entire page of photos there. Her jaw dropped at what she saw. Pictures of the new attaché he got last month, the pancakes he made for Billy on the weekend with the ridiculous whipped cream coif, and - she barked a laugh - an indecipherable blur of colour captioned with, If anyone could assist me with deleting this image I would be most #grateful .

Her phone buzzed again, and another notification appeared:

Instagram: mark.f.darcy tagged you in a post!

Bridget tapped the pop-up, wondering how on earth Mark had managed to wrangle a smartphone app, given all the technological mishaps he'd had in the past. The post was a selfie of Mabel, grinning toothily in the back seat of the car. She had clearly taken hold of Mark’s phone to take the picture. Bridget could see Billy in the corner of the frame, looking down; no doubt he was fixated on whichever Harry Potter book he was up to at the moment. Mark had captioned it:

Mabel would like to inform @mrsmarkdarcy that we are on the way home and could we please have chicken nuggets for dinner? P.S. Hello Bridget, I hope you like my Instant Gram. Thought it was time I showed it off. #lol

Touched, Bridget let out a half-sob, half-laugh. Her precious, wonderful Mark. How had he hidden this from her? He’d only just mastered the art of texting - despite some misunderstandings when it came to abbreviations and the meaning behind emojis (“You can’t send that one, Mark, that looks like you’re in tears of laughter when you’re trying to be sympathetic,”) and it amazed Bridget that he’d been able to work the camera, let alone add captions. And hashtags , for crying out loud.

After dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve, she stood, sniffling one last time. She made her way to the kitchen and fetched a box of nuggets from the freezer, and making sure no reflection of herself in her robe was visible, snapped a quick photo of it laying on the counter.

The appropriate filters were applied, and her caption read:

Dearest @mark.f.darcy , thank you for your message. Preparation for the evening’s feast is well underway. #onthetable #foodie #chefmode #food #nuggets

Billy, Mabel and Mark came home to the smell of something burning in the oven and found Bridget fussing about the kitchen, panicked by the now blackened nuggets that she couldn’t find the oven mitts to retrieve properly. Mark switched the oven off and Billy declared they would get takeaway instead. Everyone agreed.

Mark uploaded a family selfie later that evening of the four of them at McDonald’s, brandishing their nuggets, with the caption: Family dinner night with @mrsmarkdarcy!