The Daily Mail has a lot to answer for. This is where my mother has been reading all about the new research from America suggesting that male fertility decreases after the age of 35.
I pray for a lot of things. Not in a religious way of course, there's no kumbaya or anything like that involved. It's more in a 'wouldn't it be nice if...' kind of way. The usual things are on my list: world peace, for Arsenal to go bankrupt, for more episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and for my mother to wake up one day and decide never to read the Daily Mail again. I know I should think bigger, but somehow it seems too much to ask for the Daily Mail to close down.
The worrying thing is that when my mother tells me she's been reading about my declining chances of producing offspring she isn't at all worried, which immediately tells me something is very wrong.
Of late, over the last couple of years, okay since I turned 30, my mother's interest in my love life has taken on an increased urgency. Her questioning has become more pointed. Where as before she would say things like 'shame' when I told her it hadn't worked out with girl A or R, this shifted into ever increasing detailed questioning. She'd want to know details about the break-ups, what exactly went wrong, and generally telling me in a Pop 101 therapy kind of way how concerned she was about my future.
This time with the infertility I was ready and fully expecting more of the same. What I actually got was a jaunty, jolly-sounding mother who was gently ribbing me about the waning power of my sperm. Pretty disconcerting at the best of times, but that aside something was definitely off beam.
It's disconcerting to have your mother half laughing down the phone at you and telling you that it "looks like you're time is running out" with a sort of ho ho ho. It's like my mother turned into an evil father Christmas. She even managed to quote me a few choice facts from the Daily Mail. I actually found myself agreeing with the paper, I mean seriously, 'Has the world gone mad'?
Despite my mother's cheery demeanour, I managed to fire back, and quote her some story I'd read on the Bupa website rubbishing the US research. It's not that I'm worried or anything - I just wanted to know the facts.
It struck me that my mother was acting as if she had had some kind of mini revelation. She had absolutely no interest in pursuing the conversation about infertility. It was only then that I twigged she wasn't calling about that, but about something entirely different - and it was worse than I could have ever anticipated: my younger and scarily more accomplished sister is getting married to her perfect boyfriend. Susan will love this.
My mother is ecstatic. She's in total heaven. Her dreams have been answered as she can now bankrupt the family with the biggest wedding Hertfordshire has seen in years or she will at least die happy trying. And I mean that in a nice way.
What it boils down to is that she can basically cut her losses with me and concentrate all her grandchildren ambitions on my sister. Sure, there is a long way to go and she will have to fight my sister's speciality of keeping people waiting, but that doesn't really matter as, finally, my mother can see the road ahead. In case you were wondering, the road ahead has 2.4 perfect children on it.
For me, it'll be like the bicycle incident all over again. Despite happening ten years ago when I was finishing a post grad and my sister was getting ready to start her degree, it has stuck in my mind.
It happened as I cycled off to see a friend. My sister turned to me and said: "Gordon, I can't believe you're 24 and still riding around on a bicycle, you are so sad." Actually, she could have added that you're broke, unemployed and living with your parents as well. She was only able to say this at 18 because she was the proud owner of a Ford Fiesta.
Obviously, this latest episode will be bigger than the bicycle incident. This time it will be "Gordon, I can't believe your unmarried at 34 and your sperm count is set to drop off the scale", but still. I tell my mother this is wonderful news, but admit surprise that my sister didn't call me herself. Actually, I'm not at all surprised, all I got on my birthday was a text message.
"She's been incredibly busy telling people about it."
"Well I think she could have called, that would have been nice."
"She did say for me to give you a message. She says she would rather you didn't come on your own."
"You're joking, right?"
"No, you know what she's like. She's worried that you'll create an uneven number."
Unbelievable, but that is just what my sister is like. As for the uneven number that is the worst lie I've heard in years. What she's worried about is that she'll have to point me out to her friends. "That's my brother over there, he's on his own and still rides around on a bike."
I tell my mother this won't be a problem as I will be able to bring The New Girlfriend (TNG) with me. My mother doesn't even bat an eyelid when I mention TNG. She doesn't even want to know her name or what her parents do. This is just as well really, but more about that next week.
The Demographic Shift is a new regular column on Brand Republic as Gordon MacMillan charts his own demographic timebomb.