I remember once I was in my room, talking on the phone, laughing uproariously, and my father came hesitantly knocking on the door, asking what was wrong. Why was I crying, he asked. What? I repled. I was on the phone. What was he talking about? There was a long pause. "But you don't have a phone," he said. He sounded terrified. And, er. Yes, I did. In fact, architecturally, my room was the hub for all the phone jacks in the house. Somehow this information didn't make him feel any better, though. The episode was just more grist for the mill.