Blonde's Eye View: That elitist club

Wine is a great soother as my contemporaries settle down and I fear I may be getting a teensy bit old.

Junior's arrival has a devastating effect on friendships. New Dads aren't too bad; still, your mate's just a bit dazed and allowed out to play a little less.

New Mums are mere carcasses of the person before. I'm not talking about the baby sick-haired, sleep-deprived Guantanamo inmate who has replaced your gorgeous groomed friend.

I'm talking about the personality lobotomy that happens just after they cut the cord. A gulf opens up between us, without children, and them, without a life.

Gone is the gossiping over cocktails, instead you get tales about green breast milk from excess spinach.

No more do you collectively coo over the latest it bag, she is too busy publicly goo-ing and gaa-ing to an inanimate sprog while you visibly cringe.

They have no interest in anything unless it begins with baby and ends in a dirty nappy.

Showing attention to the tiny tot is met with patronising comments centred on your lack of child rearing credentials.

Apparently eight hours in labour is qualification alone as super mum of the year. It's one elitist club I have no desire to join.

Bored with lives that revolve around mashed carrot, women get competitive about raising their little darlings.

No solids till they are one, no dummies, Mozart for babies, baby yoga. It's all to fill a hole the new being has created. A big, black hole where there used to be an intelligent, vivacious woman.

So I've decided to take sensible precautions. If I do ever have children I shall keep my life and get a nanny.