Not all women are ticking clocks...

My three year old godson Oliver just told me he loved me down the 'phone. There is something very beguiling about holding that place in a child's heart.

I stayed with him, his little sister and his parents when I was recuperating from my dull op in December. His, & Lulu's, greatest joy was to run up to my attic room every morning and jump on my bed, using me and the iron bedstead as a jungle gym. (Ouch.)

I think the thing I miss most about London, bar my family & the dog, is seeing my friend's children grow up. In addition to my clutch of glorious, glorious godchildren, there are quite a few other adorable cherubs kicking around North London & this week I've been requesting photographs of them all so that I can catch up. It's quite frightening how the little babies I left behind in London are all now little people, who all seem to exactly resemble their parents.

I don't feel that I am at the mercy of my biological clock: for me I've always seen children as the product of a relationship, so if I don't meet someone I want to have children with, then I won't have any. I do wish though that men wouldn't presume that all women in their thirties are chomping at the bit to procreate. It's just not the case.

I'm very happy with my role as Aunty LLG. I love my friends' children and if that is the way it's going to be, then so be it.

Easter card by my god-daughter Amelia