Time:: The Present - fifty years from now.¹

The place: Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania.²

Three delightful (at least, their parents think so) eight-year-old girls are playing in a bedroom. The bedroom is, of course, pink: the curtains are pink, the bedspread is pink, the throw-rug on top of the beige (ugh!) wall-to-wall carpet is pink, and of the two dozen stuffed animals on the pink 'book'shelves, about two-thirds are...pink.

The girls have been friends forevah, at least since kindergarten, and are dressed in the latest fashion, pastel babydoll tops with matching tights. As usual, they have consulted on their personal phones before dressing this morning, so that they nevah wear the same colour, which would be yucky.

Hunnybunny is wearing lavender. Her friend Eutopsia is wearing pale yellow. Effupls, whose room this is, is wearing pink, because she's the leader and always gets to pick first. All three girls are wearing their hair in perfect eight-year-old style - in corn rows, with bows to match their outfits.

After a stimulating session of painting each other's toenails with golden-glitter polish, they decide to get out their Barbarellamax(TM) sets, and play with them while they have an old-fashioned gab session.

First Effupls locks the door, so that her horrible little brother Upurs can't get in. 'He's such a pill,' she rolls her eyes, 'he's always hiding under my bed, evah since he scared them so bad when he ran away from home last year.' The first day of kindergarten, Upurs had suffered the usual fate of those named romantically after a parent's adolescent username, and had done a bunk for the rest of the day, being finally found hiding in the utility closet of the Chucky Cheese on Lancaster Avenue. Since then his parents had tried therapy, but refused to petition for a name change, as the old-fashioned Commonwealth court system refused to use slash commands.

The Barbarellamax(TM) set is a wonder of modern toy design: each girl gets out her Ybox, and they synchronise the settings. Sitting cross-legged on the floor - carefully pointing their still-drying toes - they manipulate the buttons. And a wonderful thing happens.

In the free space in the centre of the pastel triangle, there is an arena - 3D, with holographic canvas and ropes, and a holographic referee who looks eggs-ackly like Fabio IV. The first two contestants, BarbaBun and TopsiTurfi, pop into view. Both, of course, are wearing spangled armour bikinis and high-topped, winged boots. They flex their muscles...a lot of them, and toss their lovely long hair.

Effupls keeps score for this round, and admires her friends' creations. 'Bun, I just luv the stars and stripes motif. It's so retro.'

Eutopsia shakes her braids in disgust as BarbaBun turns a back flip, the wings on her boots flapping. 'Talk about retro. Are your grannies as disgusting as my grannies? My granny Elverson is sooooo gross. We went to the Shore³ last weekend, and she came along. In her BIKINI. Lordy, she has about a hundred tattoos.'

TopsiTurfi opens with a volley from her laser pistols, which BarbaBun, who has extreme evades, dodges easily. Her owner laughs. 'My gramma Franklin, too. I'll bet there isn't one inch of her body that isn't covered with awful pics.'

All three girls shudder as Eutopsia adds, 'It looks awful, all those pics are so wrinkled. On her right arm, there's this ugly guy, Brad something, and she's so wrinkled he winks at you when she raises her coffee cup.'

'EWWWW!'

In spite of TopsiTurfi's huge, er, evades, the round is won by BarbBun when she opens fire with her secret weapon, double Hootergats, which reduce TopsiTurfi to a smoking ruin. As the defeated opponent is sent off to Recycling, FannyMax enters the arena, doing her trademark Moondance, and it is Effupls's turn, while Eutopsia helpfully keeps score, although privately displeased at her doll's performance.

Effi's attention is momentarily taken up by the game - she's a concentrated player, and her dolly's sinuous moves require dexterity with the joystick - but Topsi returns to the subject at hand, horrid grandparents.

'My gramma Heffelfinger is so awful. My uncles have to go over to her house all the time to make sure she isn't smoking that weed...and they can't get her to fix her hair. A purple Mohawk is just disgusting.'

Effi nods with eight-year-old sagacity. 'They're going through a difficult stage, says my dad. His mom is horrible. She has so many piercings she can't keep track. When we're over there, she always asks me to help her.' Strategic eyeroll, which does not interfere with her deft manipulation of FannyMax, who is clearly getting the better of her opponent by flying circles around her and dropping heat-seeking missiles (guess where they go). 'I don't mind the ears, but when she wanted me to help her with that nose ring, I ran out of the room, screaming.'

General groaning, and then cheers, as FannyMax emerges victorious in the round. Unsurprising, that, as Effi's parents have deep pockets and have sprung for the latest upgrades. The other two girls, mindful of the refreshments to come, are philosophical about the outcome, and generous in their praise.

As they fold away their kits with the concentration reserved by adults for storing the family silver, Effi sighs dramatically.

Grandparents can't help it, I think. They're just...old. What things must have been like in the Dark Ages, when they were born...just think, they only had 2D television. Did I tell you about the time my granddad took his shirt off at the beach, and almost got arrested? His tattoo says...'

The giggling pastel phenomenon clatters down the stairs, seeking the kitchen and ice cream.