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Sixth Degrees of Separation from a Rolling Stone

Instagram ,  love it or hate it, a fantastic forum for selfies and wannabes. A platform for could have beens and full of beans. I love Instagram. I follow friends, family and old celebrities, and their offspring. I follow pastimes, past loves and old students. I am a  greedy gobbler of all things grammy. My sons hate it. I love it. So there. Suck on the selfie
sunshine!
However, when instastalkie affects reality, your own reality, you have to suck it up and  suck it in. And this is my instagramanory.
One evening, late at night, the early hours nearing dawn, I instastalk. For an instant, I instacomment, on a son of a well known Stone. Why? Because his uncle was an old friend of my father. I do not think for a moment, an Instagram of a moment, that said instaceleb,would instacomment, and he doesn't. However, said uncle's son, cousin of instaceleb,  does in an instamoment. And the friendship of my father and his father's is ignited once more, in an instamoment.
So never leave a stone unturned, and rolling stones do gather moss, the moss of lost friendships of yesteryears.  And whether it be three or sixth degrees of separation,  your instaillierate parents could be instantly in touch with the youth of the rolling era.  One instacomment  made to a son of well known stone, a  husband of a  radio fern, has led to a instant renewal of a friendship between my father and his uncle - a man, I can remember in an instant -  who sang  to me as a child " save all your kisses for me" Whilst he was not a member of the Brotherhood of Man, I can remember him singing that to me in an instance.  Instagram is a stone that must keep rolling, because it's a "gas, gas, gas".

Tight as a Rat's ....

September, most flew the nest to uni but not mine - oh no, I have  to wait until the beginning of October.thanks Warwick, thank you so much.
So, IKEA run for all things studentesque. Wouldn't you think that, as an eighteen year old boy, you would want to eat, shoot and leave? Well, not mine. The pain, the absolute pain of having to decide what vegetable peeler or duvet cover to buy. There I stand, saying bag it and run and he is questioning the quality and economic value - for Pete's sake, I am screaming in my head, just bloody bag it so we can escape this hell hole. It's my money that's funding this so run boy, run and buy like the wind!
No, we have to enter every department and weigh up the financial decision of each frigging item. Have the youth lost their way? All I can think is I am funding this and if I want to do super trolley sweep, what is stopping him?!  How can you question whether you need one wooden spoon or two? You play rugby and smash without thinking and you are worried about cutlery! I yawn and roll my eyes.
Then the debate on wine glasses occurs and I practically lose the will to live. He wants to buy one. I question his decision and place four in the blue and yellow bag. He takes three out. I raise an eyebrow.

"I haven't come to uni to be a host, Mum, if I wanted a degree in events management or hospitality, I would have tried a little less at school and tried a little harder at being "fun and nice""
I sigh. God help Warwick and anyone foolish enough to be entertained by him. His glass does not runneth over! The only one glass he has is firmly in his tight fist!