Then of course there's the mobile phone photos with which to bore everyone we meet, coupled with the stories of what they have learned or done to make us laugh in the past 24 hours.

The worst thing is, they're not even real babies.

They're furry babies, better known as kittens.

Forget Botox and Balenciaga bags, these little chaps are all I can talk about.

I'm a kitty-bore.

I've lost interest in my human friends, preferring to rush home to my little purring pussycats.

A friend complained she is losing all her mates to new babies and pets.

And although those of us with animals rather than children are possibly lagging behind in the responsible grown-up stakes, clearly we're on the cusp of entering a new "adult stage of life."

I feel the past two weeks have provided a valuable insight into the kind of mum I might one day become, and it's not looking good.

In fact I could well be the sort that requires an industrial-sized roll of cotton wool to wrap my kids in daily.

I no longer want to party from dusk til dawn because I want to spend "quality time" with the furballs while they're young.

And I need an Abramovich-sized bank balance to pay for all their treats and accessories, not to mention our dry-cleaning bill after a few of their little accidents.

Obsession

To me, this is all perfectly normal but at what point does it stop being a healthy owner-pet relationship and turn into an obsession… next stop crazy cat-woman?

You know the sort – frizzy hair, weatherbeaten face, specs, baggy trousers, feet that have never even seen a pedi and Jesus sandals all year round.

Even if you fail to spot them, you can usually smell their distinctive cat-pee cologne from 30 paces.

I used to think they were born freaks but now I'm wondering if maybe they were once just ordinary animal-lovers like me.

They probably started off with the best of intentions, determined to ban their kitties from sofas, surfaces and beds, and to always use a different fork for cat food and human food.

But before you know it, they're using your brand new sofa as a scratching post, your sparkling white duvet cover as a litter tray and every outfit is "embellished" with cat hairs.

As I write these words, one kitten is clawing its way up the leg of my pretty pricey Seven jeans and the other is affectionately trying to groom my eyebrows.

Is it just a matter of time before we're eating from the same plate and I'm letting them sleep in bed next to me?

Only time will tell.

But if in a few months you see a woman who looks a lot like me, only a bit more dishevelled – with dozens of cats creeping out from beneath a flowing floor-length skirt…you'll know how this turned out.

Just don't get too close in case I'm doused in eau de chat.


Bliss...my hero goes topless


I'm not a massive football fan – but I can appreciate the finer points of the beautiful game.

Believe it or not, I was once able to give an accurate description of the off-side rule.

But that knowledge faded away a while back, along with any understanding of Pythagoras and conditions necessary to form an oxbow lake.

Still, I couldn't have been more delighted with the result of the Man United v Roma game last week.

After whipping off his top to reveal his astounding, bronzed god-like bod Cristiano Ronaldo proved himself man of the match for me.

I'm definitely a fan of this shirt-swapping malarkey, it's just a shame it makes such a brief appearance.

If only we could convince professional footballers to adopt PE lesson rules, where one team gets the shirts and the other plays in "skins" – ie: topless.

Now that would be a game worth watching.

It would bring a whole new definition to the phrase "dream team".

And for those with minds in the gutter, no, PE rules only applied to the boys – not the girls.


Birds of a feather...


Everyone's got an opinion on the transformation of the Corn Exchange into a food emporium.

When I popped in the other day it seemed most of the dozen or so people in there were gazing wistfully at the rows of empty units as if imagining how it used to be.

As I stood there I overheard a man explain to his companion that the shopping centre had suffered because of youths hanging around outside. He was referring to the Emo kids – easily confused with Goths as they all dress in black and live by the rule that you can never wear too much black eyeliner.

So I almost fell over laughing when he added: "Yeah, you know the sort – those emu kids"!

"Emu" kids really would have got the security team in a flap.