THERE is a photograph doing the rounds that I'm absolutely in love with. At first glance it appears fairly innocuous, a group of cheering fans lining the streets of Greater Boston in the hope of catching a glimpse of the star-studded cast arriving for the premiere of new gangster biopic Black Mass.

It is reminiscent of images we have seen a thousand times. Then you spot it. Amid a sea of people an older woman leans casually on the barriers. There is a contented expression on her face as she stands there, wholeheartedly and with unabashed delight, drinking in the moment. She is the only one in the photograph not looking at her phone.

Taken by John Blanding, assistant chief photographer at the Boston Globe, outside the Corner Theatre in Brookline, Massachusetts, the picture has since gone viral, shared countless times around the world.

It is a potent – and wonderfully ironic – reminder of society's increasingly slavish affair with technology and the double-edge sword borne of our current obsession for doggedly documenting every minute detail of our lives for posterity.

I bristle when I think of all the recent times at concerts when my view has been obscured by someone in the row in front clutching an iPad like Rafiki holding aloft an infant Simba above Pride Rock in The Lion King. Folk no longer wave lighters at gigs, it is £400 tablet computers.

These people aren't in the moment. They are already thinking about a future moment down the line, one where they are showing off that clip to friends in the pub, envious colleagues or posting on social media for likes (and bragging rights).

Their memories of this glorious thread in life's rich tapestry will not be one embraced with all five senses, but woefully obscured by the limiting constraints of viewing it through a tiny five-inch screen. Isn't that a terrible shame?

Don't get me wrong, I'm as much a technology fiend as the next gal. I own two iPhones, a digital camera, a tablet computer and a laptop. There are times when I leave the house armed with an arsenal of gadgetry which would dwarf that necessary to initiate a nuclear launch sequence.

Lately, though, I've become jarringly conscious of the small, precious moments slipping away. I'm kicking myself at the ones that have already gone, the collateral damage of being glued to a virtual world rather than that unfolding around me.

My mother tells me she can't get her head around seeing a roomful of people all sitting silently tapping away on their phones. Isn't technology meant to help enhance communication with one another? If so, then why aren't we embracing those moments when actually in the company of fellow human beings rather than ignoring them to converse with faceless individuals in cyberspace?

She makes a good point. On a recent visit to the cinema, I switched off my mobile phone (both of them) and immersed myself in the unfolding action. I was about the only one. At regular intervals throughout the film, there would come a sudden flash of light in the darkened room.

A ghost-like apparition of a disembodied head would appear amid the blackness, the face bathed in an eerie glow. Frantic movement would follow as the phone's owner feverishly scrolled for news of whatever momentous event might have occurred in the inconvenient hour-and-a-half they were forced to endure radio silence. Up on the big screen, the plot played out ignored.

On another occasion I witnessed a scene that made me want to simultaneously laugh with mirth and weep at the cruel irony. A gaggle of girls so engrossed in choosing the most flattering filters on Instagram for their collection of selfies that they didn't notice a renowned Olympian walk past only inches from where they stood. Part of me wanted to call out: "Wait, stop, you're missing it." By the time they looked up, he was gone.

I've kept all the emails my late father sent me before he passed away four years ago. The early ones, as he first got to grips with technology, read like telegrams, brief and to the point: "Hello. Weather great. Love Dad."

Later, they grew longer and more sophisticated with pasted jokes, anecdotes about the dog's latest adventures and links to online stories he thought I might like.

I will always treasure that electronic correspondence. What I will cherish more, however, is all the great conversations my father and I shared, the belly laughs, the sage advice he imparted and the irreplaceable moments spent in each other's company. That, after all, is what life is really about.