THANKS to the fact I struggle with the fast-moving digital world of the 21st Century, I have become used to my sons treating me as if I am an idiot.

I, who in their eyes at least, used to know everything, am faced with a chorus of: “Come off it, Mum. You can’t really be that stupid” when I ask what the cloud is and how I get things in and out of it. They laugh and look at me as if I am a two-year-old when I ask if I should rent one or buy one of my own. My smart phone has been scaring me with alarming messages about low storage and I don’t know what to do.

I suspect I am not alone. I have never used Uber or bought anything off Amazon or iTunes. I did try to purchase something from eBay using PayPal once. Never again. I still don’t understand what Snapchat and Instagram are, even though they seem to play a huge role in my sons’ daily lives.

The boys have downloaded all my apps for me. They put me on Twitter and set me up on Spotify. I need their help when strange messages about ‘android settings’ or ‘a new input’ appear on our smart TV, the sole purpose of which seems to be proving just how dumb I am.

How do the boys know all this stuff? They seem to have innate knowledge of everything digital, along with the capacity to remember thousands of passwords.

“I do know stuff,” I keep telling them. “Lots of stuff.” But, given the limited amount of space left in my brain which, like my smart phone, is fast running out of storage, I can’t cram in much more, especially since it’s all going to be out of date in a few months.

Over the past few weeks, however, the tables have turned. I bought my husband a vinyl record player for Christmas, a reproduction of an ancient relic from our era which the boys are utterly spellbound by. “Cool!” said 17-year-old Roscoe when he saw it. “But what are we going to play on it?”

The boys didn’t realise we have a huge collection of vinyl, which was packed away in a large wooden chest years ago, after we got rid of our old record player. It includes their dad’s first single – Elton John’s Crocodile Rock. Most of mine, including Benny Hill’s Ernie (The Fastest Milkman In The West), and my Osmonds albums are, thankfully, no longer in existence.

This musical treasure trove of hundreds of singles and albums includes everything from early punk to the New Romantics, U2 and Simply Red. I pulled out ‘Been Teen’ by the Dolly Mixtures: “Your dad bought me this when I turned 20,” I told them.

“Wow!” said Roscoe as I unearthed record after record: “The Sex Pistols, Stevie Wonder, and all this stuff from the Eighties. Who is Sade anyway?”

The boys were mightily impressed we owned Sex Pistols albums and a copy of the original ‘Teenage Kicks’ by the Undertones, along with a few rare singles on coloured vinyl.

“How do you play them?” asked Roscoe, who has grown up with touch-screen devices and never-ending playlists, as I carefully removed ‘L.O.V.E… love’ by Orange Juice out of its sleeve. I looked at him as if he was stupid. I mean, how could he not know this stuff?

“The needle picks up vibrations from the grooves on the vinyl, which deliver a sonic message through the amp and speakers of course, you numpty,” I explained.

“But how do you know which track is playing?” he asked. “Well, duh!” I retorted, showing him a sleeve with track listings before demonstrating how to count the grooves.

He tried to put on a Human League single: “Stop! You must only touch the edge,” I screamed, before showing him how to blow the dust off the needle before putting it down and handing him a static cloth to wipe the vinyl with. Then I had to explain what speed to play it at. I shook my head: “Honestly!” I tutted.

The song he put on didn’t sound familiar: “You put on the B side,” I explained. “What’s the B side?” he said, totally confused now.

It turned out he had never heard of double A singles or EPs either. Nor did he know how to pause a track or repeat play. After I’d explained it all, I’m pretty sure he was beginning to look at me in a new light.

Because I know stuff.