OUR wedding bells fade. Traditionally, next on the agenda come kids.

Should we go for one of each, designed of course with blue eyes and blond mops, ensuring all wrinkled and faulty genes are ironed out?

Though maybe at 63 I should go straight for twins, perhaps even triplets.

En route to taking church youth to our Tanzanian orphanage this summer and, by the way, thanks to those who've helped us raise over £1,500 so far with gifts we could detour to meet that odd arm-waving Italian doctor who keeps getting pensioners pregnant.

Or perhaps we'll just stick at taking other people's kids away for a fortnight, and otherwise enjoy our six grandchildren in whom we delight.

My brother married in Paris when he was 45 and promptly well, a year later produced Harriet whose favourite word became "NON!"

He spent the next ten years wading through absolute fatigue, pleading in tears for baby-sitters.

Cruel I know, but I thanked God that, except for holidays, the English Channel gave this uncle a marvellous excuse.

I'm four years his senior, for heaven's sake! How was I expected to cope?

So, how on earth is the UK's expectant oldest mum going to juggle a screaming offshoot in the OAP queue, and won't it put her Saga benefits at risk?

Perhaps God loved women so much that He only gave them so many eggs.