In advance of going to a wedding, Daughter Number Two messages me: Do you have any slay sunglasses I could borrow?

A definition of the terms used here: “Slay” means cool. “Borrow” means if she likes them, I’ll never see them again. Except on Instagram with her wearing them.

I should defend, or at least explain, my daughter’s actions. As one of four girls, she grew up in an atmosphere where they became instinctive devotees of the French anarchist Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, coming to the conclusion that property is indeed theft. But only in relation to clothes (and slay accessories), thus justifying extensive borrowing from each other.

Over the years, there have been quite a few heated exchanges over who took what from whom, most of which were never resolved because they couldn’t remember who originally acquired the disputed item; as if the clothes magically arrived by themselves, ready to be fought for. Like meat thrown in the water for sharks.

I have mixed feelings about all this. I greatly admire their interest in exploring alternatives to capitalism and their commitment to recycling garments. But because they don’t live with each other any more, the opportunities for pilfering have greatly reduced. Which has made me more of a target.

Daughter Number Three turns up at the house, somehow having failed to notice that it’s February. Dad, I’m freezing. Can I borrow a jumper? I never see it again. Trousers, shirts, belts, jackets, gloves: I’ve been dispossessed of all these items, sometimes with my co-operation. And this kleptomania seems to be contagious. Even Herself, who openly lusts after my cardigans, has succumbed to borrowing one occasionally. (Thankfully, her inner Blueshirt prevents her from embracing radical politics and she gives it back.)

This is not all bad. I find it flattering that they like my clothes enough to want to take them from me. But it can also be profoundly dispiriting. Because if Herself or one of the girls puts on something I own, my first instinct is to give it to them. Not because I’m generous. Quite the opposite. It’s because every single time, without exception, every garment I have looks far better on them. They are systematically ruining all my clothes for me. And the slay sunglasses I no longer own.

But, to be positive again, at least they are deriving some small amount of style inspiration from actual human beings. Not too long ago, people would choose clothes and music and films and books based on the influence of others or geography or accident or the strange sense that this cultural artefact says something to me, or about me.

Now it all comes from the same place: online. The sales pitch would make this sound like the best thing ever. The digital world is all about personalisation. It will relentlessly suggest stuff that you like.

[ This had never happened to me before. I was on the plane and a woman said: ‘You’re in my seat’Opens in new window ]

Except that it won’t. The algorithm is like some heedless aunt who gives you Lego for your birthday every year because you liked it when you were 10. It is unable to account for the fact that people change, that they mature or even get bored. It cannot compute originality. It can only copy, making music and films that seem spookily familiar. (Real music can go viral. But that’s often an AI-directed marketing scam.)

For the digital native generations, this must be having an effect. Pounded with small variations of the same thing every day, they risk becoming stuck; on mindlessly relying on their phones to tell them what they like. We’ve already been hypnotised into accepting endless repetition. It’s why the zillion Marvel movies continue to make money; why so many films and TV shows are “reboots”.

The algorithm collects and disperses information. But all it sees are other algorithms. And that’s us.