It's a hell of a thing, not breeding. After the all-night, balls-to-the-wall, hands-in-the-air, caution-to-the-wind rollercoaster ride that is your twenties, you hit the thirty-something stretch, and suddenly the road to the future reaches that almighty fork, where the signs point in two directions: Breed (population six billion) and Not Breed (population: 2).

Seemingly innocuous get-togethers become rife with pitfalls and eye-opening moments, like "how much were you dilated?" as you're casually leaning over to retrieve the salt so you can chuck a Tabasco omelette at your hangover.

And then it hits home.

They're not asking about the size of your pupils after a long night's rave. Oh, no.

It's interesting to watch the shift in priorities that occurs in one's peers over the age of 30, hell, it's a downright phenomenon to behold and a testament to the power of our urge as a species to breed.

That rosy-cheeked mom over there in the corner? A thirteen-double-vodka-and-cokes-in-a-night kind of gal she was, with all the blurry cellphone snaps of her flashing the DJ at an all-nighter to prove it.

The dad in the corner currently dangling his firstborn on his knee? Teaser's best customer till only five months ago. God alone knows how Lolly Jackson is going to put his kids through varsity now that one of his most valued guests is on the straight and narrow.

The domestic goddess in the demure empire-line floral number spooning pureed butternut soup into little Zen Okra Narwhal's screeching maw? The scourge of Ibiza two summers ago, with more notches on the bedpost than Amy Winehouse has had Tanqueray and tonics.

And the rather respectable bespectacled gent discussing comfort-fit nappies with his dowdy librarian-looking wife? Last we saw of him he was weakly fending off the amorous advances of a muscle Mary in the shadowy recesses of a notorious local leather lounge.

Yes, things certainly have changed when you look around and realise that a particularly virulent strain of Parentiasis populosum has miraculously passed you by.

Next stop: waiting for the divorce fallout.

What can you look forward to as a thirty-something non-breeder? Phone calls at 4am from freshly divorced casualties of domestic warfare, replete with the obligatory drunken confessions that he/she never loved him/her and he/she was crap in bed and has run off with a yoga/Pilates instructor/secretarial floozy/transvestite waxidermist/(insert bizarre post-separation recovery shag here).

Yes folks, that's what you get for makin' whoopee.