Gwyneth Paltrow is many things – an A-list actress, an entrepreneur, a woman who has built a business empire on charging eye-watering amounts for self-care products that sound as if they were invented during a free-association session at the local poetry night – but she is not known for being relatable. Yet on Instagram, as she was told off by her teenage daughter, Apple, with a statement one door-slam away from: “You’re sooooo embarrassing”, something human began to manifest. Paltrow had posted a picture of herself with Apple, wearing ski goggles. “Mom, we have discussed this. You may not post anything without my consent,” the 14-year-old wrote underneath it, as crisp as the snow behind them.

Paltrow’s audience of 5.3m was torn, the comments turning into a battleground of pro-privacy advocates (surely ironic, to argue that via Instagram, where one click on a single pair of leggings means never being able to escape from leggings ads for the rest of your mortal days) and people who think Paltrow is perfectly entitled to post pictures of her progeny.

Leaving aside the main question, which is why they didn’t speak or text about it, I found myself in the very non-Comment-friendly position of being able to see where each was coming from.

The relationship between parents and children on social media is, at its finest, hilarious and absurd. It is two teams playing a match against each other using different sets of rules. It is football versus golf. It will never come together in anything other than a cloud of chaos. My dad was a late adopter of social media and he still approaches it with an innocence and gusto that make me grateful he does not yet know how to tag. “Name one thing your dad taught you,” ran one particular Facebook post that he had been drawn to, filled underneath with sweet, inspirational stories about love and growth and strength. “How to gut a rabbit,” he wrote.

But young people, who had a digital footprint before they could walk, seem to be avoiding their every activity being documented and promoted, no matter how proud the parents’ intentions. It provides yet more of a hint that they are wise beyond their years; it’s only idiots past a certain age who will put up with waking the morning after a party to find that their phone is buzzing with notifications because there is evidence online that they started dancing, in the style of a jig, at a certain too-late point of the night. Frankly, nobody needs to see that. The future is in safe hands.

Tom Hiddleston - what a way to boost breakfast

Centrum multivitamins got more than it could have possibly bargained for by casting Tom Hiddleston in a recent Chinese advertising campaign. Though it runs on the network Weibo, the clip has done a roaring trade in international viral attention, with many western viewers agog at the slight “Is this a DVD extra for Luther where the killer doctor with strong architectural instincts turns out to have had an accomplice all along?” feel of it all. Hiddleston is in your house, serving you breakfast, promising to be back soon, especially if you don’t eat up all of your sweetcorn and carrots.

Though much of the reaction here has been mocking, let’s face it, Hiddleston has played a blinder. He’s done a buy-one-get-one-free for Centrum, which has seen the advert travel around the world. He is a master of efficiency who not only juggles breakfast and sweet nothings, but can take a brand to global fame in just a matter of days.

If there was anything that could turn me into a Hiddlestoner, it’s this. I’m now just waiting for the Us-style alternative theories to make their inevitable debut. What if Hiddleston is serving breakfast... to himself?

Zoe Lister-Jones – will modern Nancy cast a spell?

In the endless parade of reboots that keep bubbling up in Hollywood, I wanted The Craft to be wrapped in black PVC and preserved in its 90s heyday, untouched by that harbinger of doom, the “modern-day update”. I also want to be able to open a news app without getting sweaty palms, but life is not a picnic, people. Last week, it was announced Zoe Lister-Jones will write and direct a new version of the teen witch classic.

I loved The Craft for many reasons, and not just because it taught me that black lipstick is not a sustainable look, but mostly I loved it for Nancy. Fairuza Balk’s Nancy is a down-on-her-luck teenager who finds salvation in power. She doesn’t use her magical abilities to change the colour of her hair. She uses them to sort her terrible life out and to wreak revenge on the boys who lied about having sex with her friends just so that they could call them sluts.

While the other witches plump for largely aesthetic supernatural tweaks, Nancy declares she’d rather have all the power of the gods, thank you very much. Sure, there are a few bodies racked up along the way, and she goes mad, and it doesn’t end brilliantly for her, but Nancy is a true character for our times, the ultimate villain who’s actually just a bit misunderstood.

There had been rumblings of a do-over before, though nothing materialised; the starting gun has been fired on this one and it’s sprinting towards reality. I am cautiously interested. Lister-Jones is a promising choice to lead this Craft 2.0, and, really, every generation deserves their own Nancy.

• Rebecca Nicholson is an Observer columnist