PRINCESS Diana was famously the most photographed person in the world.

Seems like Diana could have her title rivalled by every newborn infant encumbered by parents with a Facebook account. Or any teenager equipped with a smart phone with a front facing camera.

Or the cats I cat sit for, if I stop and take an honest, embarrassed assessment.

My iPhone very rudely locked me out. It asked me to change my four digit passcode by first entering my current passcode. I entered my current four digit passcode. The iPhone vibrated and shuddered to a frozen stop. It told me to come back in a minute. Then 10 minutes. Then an hour.

The Herald's IT department was very patient and helpful. They Googled for a solution. No, no, I hadn't backed up and I don't use the Cloud. The only option, said IT, is to restore - completely wipe the phone and start again, afresh. "My photos!" I could hear myself becoming increasingly shrieky. I have around 1300 photos on my work phone. Photos I cannot be parted from.

"Are they mostly selfies?" asked The Herald's increasingly less patient and helpful IT department.

With mounting panic I phoned Apple in the US. The lady from Apple in the US was very patient and helpful. "What we're gonna do is, we're gonna restore the phone." "I DON'T WANT TO!"

She remained calm and helpful as I tearfully told her I would not be restoring my phone until Steve Jobs comes back from the dead and tells me himself there is no hope.

Why on earth, when we're contemplating sending man 225 million miles through space to Mars, can we not unlock an iPhone?

But then, as I carried my useless, impotent iPhone around in my pocket, I began to think about those photos. The 1300 locked up photos and the 3036 on my personal phone.

How many pictures of our lives do we need and what, really, is the purpose of those pictures?

How do I benefit from a photograph of the spider that curled up under my living room window ledge? Of the Halloween mask in Tesco with the label "Remove the blister when wear"?

Did I need to document every cake I bake or all the prosaic cat-like things my feline charges get up to?

How about that time I was sick so violently I gave myself two black eyes?

What about the photos I discovered after my birthday, which showed some fantastically creative selfies taken by my friends Griff and Smay when my back was turned? Actually, yes. Yes, those last ones I need.

But the others?

A chap in Fresno, California, claims to have uncovered a rare and very expensive photograph of Billy the Kidd with members of his gang, the Regulators, playing croquet in New Mexico in 1878.

Experts had concerns the photograph is a fake, given surrounding trees aren't very Wild Westish, but it's now authenticated and insured for $5million.

There's a thrill of excitement to seeing this incongruous, historic image turn up, treasure hunt style, in an antique shop.

Historians thought they knew all there was to know about Billy the Kid, the bloody outlaw, and here he is, with a wedding party playing genteel croquet.

Our generation is leaving no mystery for history. We document every little shift and hiccough. There will be no surprises, no character traits left private. No detective work needed for anthropologists to piece together a timeline of our existence.

Perhaps this Apple software glitch has done me a favour. I have a mind's eye for my memories, after all.

It's time to take a deep, deep breath... and hit restore.