NARCISSUS was the beautiful Greek demi-god who stared into a pond and fell in love with his own reflection.

The son of a river god and a nymph, he showed disdain towards those who loved him, and, in the days before mirrors and Facebook, his reflection was the closest he got to a selfie.

As myths go, the tale of his demise has two versions – one, that unable to leave his reflection, he stayed by the pool until he died – the other, that he killed himself after realising his love would always be unrequited.

It might be me, but Narcissus sounds a bit thick.

Then again…

I was at an event a few months ago – a slightly lively do, where people for whom middle age is creeping up on them (and I include myself in that) - were having a drink, and dancing in a way reminiscent of their parents at weddings about 30 years ago, that would at the time have had them hiding under a cloth-clad trestle table cringing. I’m still including myself in that. Since my teenage years, my dancing has resembled that of an 80-year-old grandmother who has overindulged on the Campari and lemonade.

But at this event, through a haze of rather delicious fizzy wine, I saw one group of friends who should have been having a good time, but who spent the entire evening taking photos of themselves.

They were standing on chairs, then lying on the floor with the camera above them, then strolling on to the dance floor for just enough time to take photos of each other in various poses. It was like the Karma Sutra of selfies – amazing to watch.

No doubt each and every photo of the evening was later posted on Facebook, or for the more sophisticated customer, Instagram. Each outfit perfect, every minimal roll of almost-middle-aged flab blurred away.

Life really is being lived through a lens. Tourists turn up at the Parthenon in Athens, or the Pantheon in Rome, for just enough time to take a selfie. They don’t even glance at the ancient marble stones, or look up at the hole in the ceiling to wonder what happens when it rains.

Mindfulness is the buzzword of the moment, but really it’s just common sense. Stand outside and feel the breeze on your face or the soft grass under your bare feet. Don’t reach for your phone. It won’t capture the moment like a memory can.

My Facebook friends are perfect. Their children are beautifully dressed, wonderfully behaved, and win “best pupil” awards for being highly intelligent every single week.

Despite many having two or sometimes three children, my Facebook friends have amazing social lives which involve parties every weekend where they are immaculately turned-out – no trace of crusty, day-old Weetabix or greasy finger marks on their clothes.

I, on the other hand, have three primary-age children with knees permanently so filthy they actually need scrubbing with a nail brush and super-strength soap each night. They fight, they complain, my older brother says they’re completely out of control – but I don’t care. They’re pretty damn amazing, especially when they press their chubby soft cheeks against mine when I kiss them goodnight.

I fear for their future – a future lived not in the moment, but for the purposes of projecting an image of themselves that isn’t strictly honest. A future where their purpose will be staring at their own perfect reflections, comparing themselves with other reflections, wondering if they measure up. I hope at some point we can tear ourselves away from our mirror images. I hope the selfie age is short-lived.