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So, I sometimes have problems with technology, and last week I had a problem loading Firefox and listening to my weekly podcasts online. I.e., I couldn’t listen to them. At all. They just wouldn’t play. So I called my Internet guru, No-Longer-Teenager No#1.

She advised me to update Java, uninstall and reinstall Firefox, and hey presto! Problem solved!I listened to my podcasts in peace.

Then, at the weekend, we were chatting on the phone.

Me: “So, when do I get to see a pic of your new orange hair?” I asked her, because No-Longer-Teenager No#1 is a woman of hair mystery and frequently changes her hair color.

No-Longer-Teenager No#1: “Oh, I didn’t like it orange so I dyed it red last night. Go check out my new Facebook picture.”

Me (logging onto Facebook): “Tres cute. It’s very pretty on you. I am going to comment on your wall about it,” I told her, feeling quite pleased with myself for getting to grips with Facebook a bit more just recently.

And then. . .

Hours passed (seemed like) as I scrutinized her Facebook profile. More eons of time passed, and finally, kicking myself for clearly being inept, I confessed to No-Longer-Teenager No#1.

Me: “Erm, I know I’m probably being blind or something, but I can’t see where to comment on your wall.”

No-Longer-Teenager No#1 (very patiently): “Okay. So you should click my wall, and just under where it says ‘wall’ you should see a little green speech box with speech marks in it, and it points down to a comment box. Just type in the comment box.”

Me (bewildered): “But I’ve clicked your wall, and I can’t see anything underneath it that says I can comment.”

At this point I am feeling even more inept. Where was the bloody comment box and why couldn’t I see it?.

No-Longer-Teenager No#1 (still being very patient): “Okay, Mum, I’m online with Teenager No #2 and he’s on his way downstairs to look at your laptop.”

This makes me feel even more bloody inept and Loser Mother-ish. Until Teenager No #2 comes striding into the dining room, takes control of my laptop, checks out my screen, and asks me if he can have the telephone so that he can speak to No-Longer-Teenager No#1.

Teenager No #2: “Mum’s right. She can’t comment on your wall. Did you do something to it? It’s definitely not her fault.”

After a long silence during which he is clearly listening to his sister’s explanation, Teenager No #2 grins at me and hands me back the telephone.

No-Longer-Teenager-No #1 (rather sheepishly): “Erm, it really isn’t you this time, Mum, it’s me. Remember a while ago when I got my tattoo? I was a bit nervous about what you and Dad would say? Well, I put the pictures of it up on Facebook and blocked you and Dad because I wanted to show it to you in person and not give you a heart attack or something. Which was a bit silly of me because I know it’s my skin and you’d say I can do with it what I like. . .”

And then she unblocked me and I could comment happily on her tres cute new red hair, so I did.

BTW, the very delicate, intricate tattoo she designed for herself is tres cute, too.