BEING a male member of the species well known for its delicate sensibilities, I am always reluctant to dip my toe into waters in which, according to the Curmudgeoness, I have no right to paddle.

So, whether I have any right to comment on the future of the British people in general, and of those in Beggarsdale in particular, I am not quite sure.

For we are discussing a subject which, when I was nobbut a lad, was strictly labelled Ladies Only.

In fact, babies.

When our (I nearly said "my", which would have driven me even deeper into the mire) two Curmudgeonlets were born, I was where every father should be: in the pub with my mates.

The New Man who held his wife's hand (and the ladies concerned were virtually all wives in those days) whilst baby was being born had not yet been invented.

Had I dared venture into that ultimate feminine domain, Mrs C would have taken a shotgun to me - "This is woman's work and nowt to do with thee." And just as well too, for I go giddy at mere pictures of the process, n'er mind the real thing.

And now, God bless her, our Curmudgeonlette-in-law has done the same thing, and there are three generations of us on this planet, which has made Mrs C very proud indeed.

She has, you see, done her duty. The species has been well and truly propagated and now she can really enjoy herself.

Unfortunately, this sense of well being was somewhat punctured the other day when a survey was published showing that huge numbers of modern, well-educated, successful career women have now stopped breeding altogether.

They have, of course, long-since given up ancient feminine occupations like sewing and doing the laundry but also fundamental arts like cooking. Putting a dish of cooked-chilled vegetable lasagne into the microwave is about as high as many career women climb on today's culinary ladder.

But giving up having babies: this is really serious. We are talking about the future of the human race here - and even a mere male like me has a right to an opinion or two about that.

Almost a quarter of British women with degrees or professional qualifications do not have any children. In America, that figure has jumped to 50 per cent and there is a whole industry devoted to serving the needs of the Dinks (that's the name for double-income couples with no kids, who therefore have tons of money to spend on superficial luxuries as therapy for ducking what some might say is life's most important activity).

Here in the Dale women with degrees are a bit thin on the ground but the two we have are both childless: Teacher Tess and Andrea from Coney Cottage.

Cousin Kate would have loved to have gone to university but had to leave the grammar school at 16 to help run the post office. She, heart-breakingly, is childless for medical reasons.

The two young wives in the village, although they have been married for several years, are also sans issue - for another pressing reason. Both husbands, The Yun Tom and John Bull's son the Bullock, are both farmer's lads - and that means, in this day and age, that they are both broke.

So the girls have to go off to work in Mar'ton every day to help pay the mortgages on their flats in the east wing of the Big House.

All this begs a very serious question. If educated and/or hard-working women are not having babies these days because of career aspirations or the outlandish price of a roof over their heads, just who is?

* The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.