I had just discovered Queen Elizabeth’s Facebook page when my husband told me that we’d be meeting her at the London premiere of “Narnia.” I felt a little thrill. I rarely care about meeting celebs, but she is right up there with Elvis Costello.

Cut to November 30^th: We were in the royal receiving line at a theatre in Leicester Square. We were told ladies must curtsy when meeting the Queen (which, just so you know, is challenging in 3-inch-heeled ankle boots), while men bow from the neck. (Waist bowing is SO fifth century.)  Also, we were forbidden to speak to Her Maj. unless she spoke to us first. (Sometimes I wish I had that rule.) And we were not to say anything personal. Even a remark as benign as, “You are looking very well, your Majesty,” which Emma Thompson once made the mistake of saying, gets you sent to the tower.

All this instruction gave me a hit of protocol panic, until we were told that, due to time constraints, I and other irrelevant types would be standing behind our more significant escorts, thereby getting royally dissed. No curtsy for me, no handshake, no asking her to friend me on Facebook. I tried to curb my irritation, figuring that, in the realm of spousal mistreatment, I was getting off easy by UK standards. (Think Ann Boleyn.) But I hope Liz couldn’t read my mind when she floated by. I will admit that, just as our eyes met, I was thinking her outfit was from the Scarlett O’hara school of making dresses from drapes.

I wonder if she had equally evil thoughts about my ankle boots, or about having to wear 3-D glasses for one hour and forty-three mites. Did she hate wading through all those discarded popcorn boxes to exit at the movie’s end? Or was she thrilled to get out of the castle for a big fat change, happy chillin’ in a big, dark room, seated near Liam Neeson? Her pleasant face revealed nothing, and neither did her Facebook page, which I just checked for updates. Do you think they’d behead me if I “poked” her?

I find it creepy, that story in the news about the two girls (ages ten and twelve) who went wandering in the storm drains in some town in Australia and got lost. To me, Aussie storm drains seem like a must to avoid; I picture them sort of super-sized and full of, I don’t know, mutant sharks or something. (I know, I’ve seen too many horror movies.)

But the story gets more complex. The girls, who apparently had cell phones and adequate service, made a goofy choice. Instead of calling 000 (the local emergency number), they made Facebook status updates with news of their predicament. Sadly, their Facebook cry for help went unnoticed for several hours, until a friend finally caught it and called, uh, 000.

This is the kind of event that inspires criticism of the girls’ parents for coming up short on safety instruction. But I’m not in a position to blame them. I don’t think I ever said to the girls, “When lost in a storm drain, call 911 first, then update your Facebook status.” Now I’m wondering what other safety tips I forgot to tell my daughters.

Ah, well, they are off at college now and must fend for themselves. I might just text them a heads up about the storm drain/Facebook thing. (Better late than never.) I’d write them on Facebook, but they refuse to friend me.