Ruth Walker: It’s one sided - technology couldn’t give two megabits if I live or die

We've accepted that, really, though we don't understand each other, we have to try to get along. Neither of us is going to disappear any time soon so, as long as neither of does anything stupid (like having a meltdown or sending me unexplained error messages, or me dropping it down the toilet or asking it to do too many things at once), we manage to co-exist in relative harmony. Basically, we muddle along.

You see, we need each other, technology and me. At least, I need it. I'm under no illusions. This is probably one of my more one-sided relationships. Technology couldn't give two megabits whether I live or die, as long as I dispose of my old gadgets in a responsible manner before I go.

But you know what riles me? What really gets me incensed about technology? It's the funny little quirks. The things that used to endear it to me. The things I thought made it kind of special and different and funny, and now drive me insane with rage.

Like a man who orders food for me in a restaurant or interrupts me when I'm speaking or makes important decisions for me in my absence, technology thinks it knows me; thinks it knows what I'm thinking. Sometimes, it even has the gall to think it knows me better than I know myself. So when I text the Teenager to remember to lock the Dior when she comes in, what I really mean to say is door. Obviously. When I tell the Mild One to knock 'em deaf in his exam, of course I mean dead. And when I tell Mother I'll be late because I have to redo some paperwork, I do not – repeat, do not – mean poop some paperwork. I'm constantly typing lively instead of lovely and, for some reason, the word white always has a capital W.

How does this happen? Why does it happen? Call it fat-finger syndrome. Call it autocorrect. Whatever causes these blips, it is legendary for the offence it has caused, friendships it has ruined, marriages it has destroyed.

“Your mum and I are going to divorce next month," sent shockwaves round one family, until they realised Daddy Dearest meant to say Disney. They were going to Disney. Yay!

“I want to have children with you" sent a new boyfriend heading for the hills. Shame, really. The poor girl only meant to type Chinese.

Telling someone your herpes is out of control could have all sorts of ramifications. Particularly when you only have hiccups. And texting from on top of a Mormon means something different when all you have bagged is a Munro.

A colleague's mother texted to inform him she'd finally found her Gspot. It was in the back of the car all along. He was delighted for her, of course. But would have preferred fewer details. And, anyway, it was her GPS that had proved so elusive.

A friend once texted to congratulate me on my well-manured children. Another informed me “been in bar for a whole now, when you out vienna". Whatever that means.

In the course of writing, I’ve discovered a way to turn auto-correct off. And yet, I think I'd miss it. If I show patience and understanding, maybe it will too. After all, good thongs come to those who wait.