There is a mother with a couple of children, a boy and a girl, at a neighboring table in a Zagreb café. The boy is ten or eleven and the girl is six or seven. The mother takes the girl to the toilet at some point. After a while, the girl returns alone, grabs a mobile phone from her brother’s hand and starts yelling: “Who allowed you to look into my mobile?” He says nothing. “Idiot,” she yells and smacks him over the head. At this point he slaps himself over his head, as well. “Silly me,” that is. He, too, has a mobile phone, of course. By the time the mother returns from the toilet, peace is restored. Looking into their mobile phones, they tell her not a word about their tiff. At this point I give the children a closer look. Both of them are dressed to kill. The boy is wearing a leather jacket, and the girl wears a colorful miniskirt. Their hairs show the hands of a careful hairdresser. The girl’s hair reaches all the way to her bum. In short, children to die for. Early years of the Twenty-First Century in the center of the Croatian capital.