Gramsci looked up from his afternoon snack as the Cow handed him a postcard. He'd seen that picture before, in the Library, only more of it and in colour, so he wasn't quite sure what the point was.
"The other side!" The Cow rolled her eyes impatiently. Gramsci dutifully looked.
"Might be an interesting exhibition," he admitted, "But why are they wanting to find UCT? Did someone misplace it?"
"Look closely!" the Cow insisted. Gramsci looked, bemusement etched deep into his chitinous exoskeleton. Finally he admitted defeat. "What?" he asked, perplexed.
"The email address! What do you notice about it?"
Light broke out in Gramsci's multiple eyes. "It's a GMail address!" he shreiked. "I don't believe it! The Department of the wife of the DVC with the IT portfolio... using a GMail address for Official Purposes! I guess that's a vote of confidence in the UCT Email system alright!"
"Well," the Cow confided, "I hear that within the passages of ICTS they no longer refer to it as GroupWise, but as GroupSex."
"Why would that be?" Gramsci asked, puzzled. One of those sounded a lot more fun than the other.
The Cow shrugged. "Because," she sighed, "they reckon we're all screwed..."