Forgive me if I’m late to the playground, the Facebook playground that is, the one complete with cliques, popularity conquests and childish petty behaviours I thought I had long left behind with scraped knees and mercurochrome.

Some time ago, I reluctantly joined FB due to pressure from extended family members. Join or be left out of updates, they said. Fine. Apparently, nobody likes to use email to communicate any more, leaving it up to one liner status changes to tell us what they’re doing in traffic and for their mobile phones to upload the latest happy snap. So I caved in and created an account under my name.

My aim was to part of the group who gets updated with news: who got engaged or married, who popped out an offspring, who had a big birthday bash and where they went on holidays for summer. It was like a virtual family-friends reunion and I enjoyed it so far. Judging by the lifestyle of the rich and famous snaps, I can now pick my next holiday destination from Santorini, Dubai, Croatia, Capri or Marrakesh just to name a few destinations. There’s something to be said for living somewhere other than the arse end of the world when it comes to holidays.

I thought I was in. Then I noticed the number of ‘friends’ suddenly drop out, then magically return. De-friended so soon? Not nice. I played the commenting game like a keen novice (little they know I keep a blog, ha!) but found that people were highly selective about to whom they respond. Fine. But when I had an announcement that was worthy of a congrats, and I updated my status to that effect and uploaded photographs, none came. That wasn’t fine. Particularly when someone shortly announced the arrival of their bundle of joy like it was the second coming of Christ.

So in the meantime, I am not accepting any invitations for a (Lil) Green Patch, a pink ribbon, Texas HoldEm Poker, or friend requests from people I don’t know.

Because I don’t care.

Cléa has a sour taste in her mouth is going to be my next status update.