SOMETIMES my MacBook Air has a little flicker or three and the whirling globe of death twirls on and nothing happens. My cursor sticks and I stare at it in bafflement.

Or I’m told my page is generating too much energy and I should open another window after closing down. I do and within minutes the whirling ball is back mocking my attempts to push it anywhere.

Then I read help explanations and stare in wonder at the, to me, meaningless words and paths and steps to take to clear out caches, cookies and…other things.

I have no idea what ‘they’ are talking about so I shout at it instead mainly: You’re only one bloody year old. Why are you doing this to me?

I then wait, practising my diaphragm breathing as I do so, muttering "zen".

It works, until the next time.

Now, to those of you who have the luxury of walking into a town or city where all permutations of life, indulgence and Dim Sum exist; where throngs of people of all varieties weave their way around you; where you can go to pubs and meet real people not avatars, this probably sounds a little odd.

But when something goes awry with my silver friend, I feel my very essence draining; my substance evaporating; my being in total panic. If the internet goes off for no discernible reason, I feel like rocking and mumbling in some bizarre act of comfort.

Those of you who don’t use computers (really?) or use them rarely ie probably those of you who actually have a life, will never understand how existence works for those of us in the twilight zone.

And I am a mere basic level user who has no real awareness of all the awesome moves I can make with this machine. It can even answer questions in a Siri voice but I never have tried that, as well, just too spooky, non?

But it is my portal into a world I can no longer feel, touch or travel. I may go for a few days without talking to a real human but via Twitter I have more than 7000 friends – one of them is always awake, even at 3am when insomnia grips. All you need to tweet is: Anyone out there? (Ignore the weirdos)

We can chat about a TV programme, a news item, politics, dogs – everything or anything day or night. And, unlike a live-in partner, with one click, you can ignore them or simply erase them. What bliss is that?

I have every newspaper in the world – if it’s online – at my fingertips; although nothing beats the real thing spread out on a table before you.

Every TV channel too. I can have 24-hour rolling news playing in a corner of my screen; idly wonder about a poem half remembered then click onto Google and there it is; pull up pictures to try and identify one of the little brownish birds in the garden (never works – do you know how many little brownish birds there are?) , hell, even diagnose whatever disease I think I may have this week.

People can phone me on it without paying a charge and vice-versa; most – I’m in France remember – bank transfers and bills can be done on it, and I don’t even have to think up a password. It generates one for me and I can call it up from the cloud by touching my forefinger on the on/off button.

(I think though that if, after death, my son needs to call up all these things he’ll have to cut off my forefinger, mummify it, and press it on the button. No other way around it – you really think I can remember any of this generated stuff and anyway, where the hell is this cloud? How does one ascend to it if not dead?)

In the last few months my IT man/gardener has added a thing which I pay for which mimics me in other countries and lets me watch UK catch-up TV.

So, if anyone ever invites me out during Corrie or EastEnders time, (not that anyone ever does any more) I can go – for all awaits me on my return via my lovely silver friend.

Real time barely exists anymore in my universe. And these tools were all I thought I needed to make my life if not complete then at least bearable.

Of course, I knew of Netflix, but with paying for papers online, Sky, filmon, that was a few euros too far. And then, a friend visited and gifted me access to his Netflix account.

Gifted or cursed? For three days now I haven’t washed, hardly eaten, answered no emails and tweeted a quarter, if that, of my usual quota.

I have finally binged. All three and a half series of The Good Place where souls arrive in heaven to be met by Ted Danson and……no, you’ll have to see it yourself.

I believe this binge watching is now a recognised disorder and you can seek help. I will. But not until I’ve seen The Crown, Messiah and hope that globe of death doesn’t spin.

Don’t knock it, humans, until you’ve tried it.