I used to have only eight friends on Facebook, a joke name and my old dog's face, because I used it for just one purpose – tracking Daughter's movements. She visits dangerous venues, and I like to know if she has survived in one piece. But it couldn't go on. Daughter reckoned I needed to be more professional. So she set me up a new page, with real name, picture and details. I must stop ignoring friend requests and start showing off.

"Where is your list of contacts?" asks Daughter, briskly, plastering the new "wall" with pictures of my life and works. "I need to put it in. It's saying you don't have any." I do. She finds the list. In it goes. I'm not really thinking of consequences here, but I can't be fagged to argue. Why worry? Daughter is trying to be helpful, and Facebook is only fairyland, floating in nothing. It doesn't exist.

"You need blah number of likes,' instructs Daughter, 'then you can do blah, then you can to do this/that, here, but don't do this, then transfer these from that page to this, and keep updating here and then you can blah, blah, blah …"

Soon, agitated messages start pouring in from old chums: "Of course I still like you, you silly old bat," writes Gloria from Devon. Then another and another: "Has your email been hacked?" "I've got this weird message from you." "What?" "Why is this message half in Russian?" I realise my mistake. I've just begged hundreds of people, some I hardly know, others I haven't spoken to for years, to be my friend and like me. Pathetic. I'm worn out writing cringey apologies.

"So you should be," shouts Rosemary. "You've been importuning people. This is very bad for your soul. You're reverting to childhood. 'Will you be my friend?' Ridiculous! Stop it, or I won't speak to you again. I don't want to be your friend any more, you're such a creep!"

Crikey! Minus one friend already. My FB page is going the wrong way. Perhaps Rosemary hasn't quite got the hang of it yet. But I have. Nearly. Like?