Facebook is trolling me.

I don’t mean anyone on Facebook, but Meta itself.

It started like any other morning. Yoga finished, I decided to check in with my online world and see who was up to what. It was great to see that a friend had knitted her pubic hair into a jumper, and another had shed 50 pounds in a weekend on an Easter Egg order at Lindt (okay I lie – that might have been me – the easter eggs not the pubic hair.)

Still, nothing unusual – just friends smiling faces and lots of pictures of dogs. Nothing unusual, that is, until I reached the ‘Recommended for You’ section. You know the bit where they list loads of groups you might like to join.

I’m in a few Facebook groups. Nothing weird. Mostly knitting, a few sewing, some history groups. They can be fun places to meet people interested in the same things as you. But I don’t like joining things. Or talking to people. Mostly I join for the knitting porn.

The first Facebook suggestion was not far off, – Knitting is my Yoga. Fair enough. Yoga is my yoga but each to their own. I don’t fancy your chances in Cobra pose trying to do a knit one, pass one over, but that could just be me.

Next suggestion was the Corrugated Iron Appreciation Society. I don’t know what has given Facebook the impression that I like my iron corrugated because it’s cool and smooth all the way with me. Get your mossy wavy bits out of my scrolling, thank you very much.

Next we had Interrailing for the Older Crowd, Aging Gracefully, and Life after Sixty. I don’t know what you are trying to say Facebook? Admittedly when I joined Facebook, I did put my age as 101 and now it thinks I am 113. Which may explain the other suggestions – Crap You Find in Charity shops, Scary Charity shop art, Swedish Death Cleaning, Norwegian Heritage, History and current affairs? Also, the adverts for Stannah Stair lift, Registering my will, and personal alarms for when I can’t get up off the floor from doing yoga (or eating too many Easter Eggs.)

What is it you are trying to say, Facebook?

Suggested Groups this month.

Survival Preppers.

Tuxedo Cats.

Goth Stitching.

Beat poets on the road.

Ikea life hacks.

Fairy Witch cottage core vibes.

It seems I am an old lady wandering around my fairy cottage stitching Goths (who I assume have had some unfortunate Ikea hack accident) showing them my vast shelves of saved Nutella and World War Two Spam while reading them Beat Poetry as they head up the road. Obviously we will have discussed the finer points of Norwegian political history, drinking from toilet bowl cups that I found in the charity shop.

Then it got down right weird. New suggestions included.

Are we dating the same guy? – I don’t know I’ll ask my hubby. You can have him if you want, I mean I’d miss the curry but meh!

For those who kept their child soul! – it was the exclamation mark that threw me (it’s been a week of terrifying punctuation.) Is this my child soul I’m meant to be keeping or my child’s soul because they are two totally different groups and I’m not sure which deserves more punctuation. Also where do I have to keep it? In a bag? In a box? Maybe I should join the Woodwork and Turners, only I don’t like spinning around too much, what with my age.

Then there was Parked Like a TWAT group. Frankly Facebook, I don’t know what your problem is. It’s my bloody drive and if I want to park diagonally I bloody well can.

Brutalism Appreciation Mark 2 was a welcome relief after all the drama of Brutalism Appreciation Mark 1. There was a full on troll war after someone suggested architect Reyner Banham was really into curvy lines and Gingerbread Chic (that’s a Brutalism joke – you just won’t get it if you’re not in the group)

Maybe I should set up my own group, you know to meet like-minded people. What would we call it.

Don’t join if you’re a twat!

Bollocks to That.

Basically, I Can’t be Arsed.

Or maybe Facebook is right and a group of older, interrailing witches, capturing children’s souls is much more my thing – just don’t mention Eric the Red or Morton Harket. (A Norwegian joke – you wouldn’t get it)

And no parking like a twat!