Yesterday I tried out an experiment on my children. I suddenly tapped 9 times on the kitchen table – 3 quick taps, 3 slow taps, 3 quick taps. Then I paused, waiting for reactions.
Were they even going to notice? And were they going to see a meaning to this tapping? Yes, no, maybe.
I raised my eyebrows. As I have only 173 eyebrow hairs left, I allowed myself a mysterious but helpful smile as well. Almost instantly they asked if I was now trying to communicate with them in Morse code? (Yes! Correct!)
Very politely my son sighed. He wanted to know why I was using Morse code? Especially as I have already been using sign language on everyone recently? This was an excellent point. So I explained that I simply wanted to have all bases covered. In case there is a really, really important message that needs to be conveyed quickly - possibly by less conventional methods and in difficult circumstances.
Again I asked them all if they could please decipher my tapping: Dot-dot-dot; dash-dash-dash; dot-dot-dot?
A little wearily, my children pointed out that they do not actually speak Morse. They were not keen on having the effort of learning it either. Cheerfully, I informed them that this was precisely why they were being exposed to one key phrase. Then, for good measure, I added something pretty motivational: a person’s life might depend on whether they paid attention and used their imagination to work the message out! At this my children leaned forward: they were now a lot more interested.
My youngest daughter called out that the tapping must be a cry for help then? Help, help, help – just 9 times? I answered that this was sort of correct, yes! Though it was more like one huge help, not nine small ones. To which my son said that he thought it might be ‘SOS?’ (Yes! Correct! Completely correct!)
Next I was curious to discover where they might (now) expect to hear these 9 taps in future? In what sort of difficult circumstances? After a pause, my eldest daughter replied in a really careful voice that she thought it might be something to do with ‘coffin-knocking’ then? What?! I had never even heard of ‘coffin-knocking’ before and I did not like the sound of it at all. I wanted to know (and didn’t want to know): Whose coffin? And who was doing the knocking? And why? And when? And how? And where – from the inside or the outside? (I have a dreadful fear of MRI scanners but coffins are much, much, much worse.)
So I reassured my children – and myself – that I definitely was not picturing a scenario where I might need to escape my own funeral. No, no, no. I was thinking more along the lines of something way less dramatic – such as urgently asking for a glass of water, if I was maybe unable to use my voice or make recognisable sign language gestures. Clarifying that was a massive relief for all of us. And for my eldest daughter in particular. She sweetly reminded me that if I’m ever desperate for a glass of water, there will be a buzzer in a hospital that I could use for ‘disasters’ like that. And if I’m at home, then everyone who loves me will just know what I mean. Even without words, or waving, or tapping, or anything: I will get that glass of water. Ah, that’s good to know. If I hadn’t started learning Morse code I might never have got this wonderful message.
