...is why people make fun of the Guardian.
My mother emailed me last week to tell me she had joined Facebook. We don't chat on the phone; we email. Soon I expect she will want to poke me, write on my wall and, worse still, tag me in photographs of my wedding last May. Well, not if I can help it, mama. I love you too much to expose you to my online self.
You see, she doesn't yet know that I, her 24-year-old daughter, am about to divorce. She can't see my Facebook status, so why would she?
Mummy, how do I tell you I'm a Facebook divorcee? That the son-in-law you try so hard to like cheated on your only daughter using the social networking site you so adore? That your daughter learnt of her imminent divorce via Google Mail's free chatting facility, Gchat?
Prince Harry may know how I feel. Would he even have known that he was single again if Chelsy Davy hadn't flagged it up on Facebook?
For fuck's sake. Kill yourself now. Do it now. Don't wait, just die now. Somehow - and it's almost a hat-tip to you - you've made Liz Jones look witty and self-deprecating in comparison.