IN WHICH I GIVE UP ON THE IDEA
I had a period in 1976. I was so utterly horrified by this that I had my breasts cut off. Due to that and eating only small pieces of dill and drinking Illy coffee for the last 30 odd years, it is possible that I may be slightly less than fertile.
I have harvested the swimmers of every alpha male in my radius, sometimes going to the extreme measure of removing the sperm from their wife's vagina. All to no avail. My fashionably thin uterus remains empty.
Of course I would have been a wonderful mother. Just look at how good I am with animals! I would have given my babies holistic alpine milk and got the vet in when they had footrot from sleeping in a wet barn.
It was never to be. Instead, all these drippingly fertile airheads sprog aggressively in my face and then ASK FOR MATERNITY LEAVE. WHY? WHY? Do they not know that having a job in the media takes priority over that THING IN THE COT.
I have had to work nineteen times harder than anyone ever, because of these women and their splurging uteruses.
If it had been me I'd be like that woman in Strasbourg, lovingly cradling my vegan offspring in the front row of Versace, if I wasn't banned for life.