SCIENTISTS have found that Facebook could help lift depression and anxiety. Researchers at Portsmouth University say 90% of users log onto the social network to remember happier times.

Psychologist Dr Clare Wilson said: “When in the grip of a negative mood, it is too easy to forget how good we often feel. Our positive posts can remind us of this.”

Actually, Facebook makes me feel depressed. But that's because I never seem to have time to add anything to it. Or anything worthy enough of inclusion.

Who cares what I did last Wednesday? Will anybody be bothered that I've just scoffed a whole packet of Rollo chocolates out of boredom or had a tizzy with my computer? I think not. And I think I'd be daft for sharing this knowledge.

Whoops! I just did.

Mind you, the scientists are correct. I know it can help lighten the mood when things get on top of you because my daughter Siobhan uses it for that very reason. Living, as she does, in the middle of the Donegal countryside with no neighbours, she uses Facebook like old time comedian Norman Evans used to chat Over The Garden Wall.

This is not so strange as, these days, people communicate by text when they are standing next to each other.

“GR8 party.”

'Triffic.”

And social networking through Facebook can be therapeutic. Particularly after the cat falls into a slurry pit in the field opposite. Not that Siobhan knew about it until her husband Ronan came to bed smelling of the great outdoors.

I'll explain.

Ronan is a percussionist and had been at a gig, returning in the early hours. The cat ran to him across the farmyard and purred and brushed against his legs in the dark. Now Ronan is not a cat person but he was taken by this spontaneous show of affection from a beast that usually stays well clear.

He rubbed it behind the ear. He let it into the scullery and fed it. It continued to purr so he let it into the kitchen where it ran around with gay abandon. Eventually, he put it back into the scullery where it sleeps and went upstairs to bed.

Only for Siobhan to notice the smell. Once pointed out to him, a very tired percussionist also noticed the smell. Back downstairs they discovered, on inspection, that the ginger tom was now 50 shades of brown and his hair was spiked like a cartoon cat from drying fertiliser.

The penny dropped. He'd lost one of his nine lives by escaping from the slurry pit and neither Siobhan or Ronan had the heart to chastise him. He was still in shock.

Mind you, it was Siobhan who had to clean the kitchen and then wash the cat the next morning, retaining a grip on reality by going onto Facebook to share the experience with chums in Ireland, Huddersfield and around the world.

Just as if she was leaning over the garden wall.