Biological Crock

On the train down to Nicole's on Friday, I listened to The First Days of Spring, the new album by one of the vanguard of the nu-folk revival, Noah and the Whale. A break-up record in the old tradition, it charts lead singer Charlie Fink's faltering steps into singledom after his break-up with folk's sweetheart, Laura Marling. His voice is a bit rubbish but the music is pleasant enough; the lyrics, however, are painful - not (only) because they are (in places) quite bad, but because of the rawness of the emotions they express - the eponymous opening track illustrates Fink's optimism following the change in seasons, but then the music quietens right down and he admits that he's "still here, hoping that one day you may come back." It's uncomfortable in its honesty and, as a young lady who's been pretty honest in her time, I can't help wincing pre-emptively at the thought of how 23-year-old Fink will feel in a few years' time. Listening to the songs, I didn't think, "Oh, poor you," but rather, "C'mon lad. I know, it hurts, but don't tell everyone. You'll feel better soon and trust me, you'll want to forget all about this, not sing it night after night on stage."

It's one of life's harsh truths that it's alright to be happy and gushing about love when you're in it - but when you're not, for god's sake you mustn't appear to want it. In fact, scratch that - you can't want it at all, not even secretly, because They Can Smell The Desperation. And the older you get, the less you must want it. Instead, you must be happy on your own, content with your independence, peacefully enjoying your life, safe in the knowledge that "it'll happen when you least expect it" and "if it's meant to be, it'll be."

I can't argue with any of the above. It's undoubtedly true that on the occasions where some maniac has really, really wanted a relationship with me, I've found them needy and desperate, and I am way more likely to steer clear. Conversely, commitment-phobes are irritatingly attractive and I become moth-like in my persistence, outraged that they don't seem to be swayed by my numerous charms. Of course, should said commitment-phobes change their minds and decide they now think I am the best thing since loaf met knife, I will almost certainly lose all respect for them within a matter of seconds. It's not my fault, it's human nature, and it happens to almost all of us.

But still, it's tricky. As you will know if you've been paying attention, I have no Significant Other at present. And, as I've said before (but hopefully not to the point where I cross the line from easy, confident opining to the lady protesting too much), I know that this situation is the right thing for me right now. I'm as sure as anyone can be that my future is bright. And I can honestly, hand on heart, say that I am happy without kids right now. If I could click my fingers and be crazy in love and pregnant, I wouldn't. I have a fair bit of travelling I want to do before I have nippers, for a start. But, just like every other single woman of my age, I am painfully, daily aware that, medically speaking, I should be having my kids now, even though psychologically, I would be perfectly happy to wait another seven or eight years before producing offspring. I've always wanted to hang out with the father of my children for a while before he becomes the father to my children, rather than calculating whether I'm ovulating as I sprint down the aisle. But as I stood drunkenly over tiny Isla's cot at about 2.30am on Sunday morning, stroking her back and marvelling at the grip of her little hand around my index finger, I very nearly cried. Of course, the booze was talking, but I had a rare moment of stampy foot childishness, because fundamentally, it's Not Fair. I'm 32. I have a fantastically fortunate life. I can do pretty much whatever I want: I'm a pro-active person who Gets Things Done. But ultimately, the thing I want most in my future is unequivocally beyond my control. There is absolutely jack shit women can do about wanting kids, except make sure that they never think or talk about wanting kids, because if they visibly want them, they're desperate and thus less likely to have them. God boys have it easy. Sure, a lot of 32 year old men want kids too, and can't find the right woman to mother them. But the time pressure simply doesn't exist in the same way, and it blows.

What is true is that devoting any time or space to this is absolutely, undoubtedly, 100% pointless. When I am in a position to start trying to have kids in the future, there's no guarantee that I or my chosen partner will both be fertile. And, of course, even if I have a gorgeous baby this time in four years, I may get hit by a bus in five. There is no way of knowing or planning for the future, so the task in hand is to enjoy the present and live for the moment. The only thing I can do is be as happy and funny and pleasant and lovely as possible. And mostly I do that pretty well. Just not so much when a gorgeous 13-month-old is staring up at me through sleepy eyes and gripping my finger when I've had a skinful of wine and been emotionally charged by an hilarious dinner and a viewing of The X Factor. From now on, babies and I will only come into contact during times of total sobriety, when I will be able to see them as the selfish, demanding, uncompromising, irrational, dependent, helpless, dribbling, mucous-producing, money-draining, sleep-depriving, life-as-we-know-it-ending creatures they really are. You live and learn.