Those of you who read this column on a regular basis will have picked up a hint that I am not one of life's born technocrats.

If it has a three-pin plug on the end of a piece of black flex, I regard it as a challenge, which I invariably lose but am always ready to take on.

I am still battling with some aspects of my computer but I won't let it win, although at the end of a long and arduous morning's work - which then goes down the drain because I pushed the wrong button - I do long for the return of the inkwell and quill pen.

I am often taken by surprise when my computer, totally unasked as far as I am aware, completes some arcane activity all on its own when I have been trying for weeks to get it to do that very thing.

What baffles me even more is the fact the beastly thing resolutely refuses to disclose to me how it did it, thus precluding me from repeating the activity.

However, enough of that - I have a new piece of equipment over which I appear, as usual, to have no influence.

I have had, for years, a video recorder of great simplicity. It had a very small selection of buttons to press and they all stated clearly what was their role was.

After a long and useful life, it finally expired and I would have been happy to continue living without a video but my family seemed to think I was deprived by not having the latest model.

Had I known what a monster I was about to unleash on my peaceful world, I would not have just thought twice about buying one, I would have refused to leave the house until the madness had left me.

In the shop it all looked so simple. The salesman lined me up in front of a TV set and a video recorder and started to explain how the thing worked.

I was confronted by an array of buttons, which made a Victorian lady's dress look positively kindergarten by comparison.

There were dials and digital clocks, a book of instructions which made Gone With The Wind look like a mere pamphlet and a salesman who could clearly go through the whole exercise in his sleep. I asked if he had anything simpler, as I probably wouldn't use it all that much and this advanced model might be a bit highbrow for me.

"A simpler model?" he said, rather disparagingly. "This is as simple as they come - a child could set this one up."

"Not this child," I muttered, as I tried to concentrate on what he was doing, seemingly at the speed of light. He went through recording, editing, playing back, recording for next Wednesday week and playing one thing while recording something different.

What other wonders did it have in store for me, I wondered? In abject humility at my bone headedness, I bought the thing on the basis that my Honorary Grandson would set it up for me and I was bound to learn its funny little ways given time.

I wrote down a series of instructions as to the steps I had to follow in order to produce the desired result and then could not read my truncated words. It is now several months since I got the wretched thing and I don't think I have once managed to record what I planned to record. Never mind next Wednesday week, I would be happy with tonight at 8.30.

It sits in the corner in all its shining glory and cocks a snook at me if I dare to approach it, instructions in hand. It snaps to attention, however, when the Honorary Grandson tells it to do something but there is a limit as to how often I can send out an SOS to him and it's not good for the image, is it? Maybe one of these days I'll just sneak up on it and catch it unawares.

If I do, you'll be the first to know.