How do they make babies, mummy? This is the question every parent dreads.

How to describe, without instilling horror into those young minds, what takes place between a man and a woman to boost the world population.

My children are mere babes and, hopefully, should not be pondering the subject for a good few years yet.

But when they do, I won't be in the least concerned, because by then, the art of reproduction will have changed beyond recognition.

Ten years from now the question: "How do they make babies mummy?" will bring the response: "Well, dear, you go to the cupboard and take out the freeze-dried sperm - it's in the jar next to the coffee - then you add water and stir. Then you take an egg from the freezer and defrost it in the microwave. Put the two together, pop it into the oven and Bob's your uncle."

Well, the last part might involve some form of human involvement - but the way things are going, it's debatable.

We've had so-called test-tube babies, lesbian couples using syringes to conceive, Jacqui Dixon in Brookside getting pregnant with a turkey baster, the Bradford husband having his sperm frozen for later use, an Internet sperm bank service and, recently, the city banker and her husband having an embryo frozen.

Now things have gone a step further, with the concept of the "instant" baby. Scientists can now freeze-dry sperm, just like coffee granules. You simply add water and the rehydrated sperm is injected into an egg for fertilisation.

Samples could be stored for decades - a man could even stick it in an envelope and mail it to a loved one on the other side of the world. The pregnancies of the future will involve less and less physical contact.

Human biology lessons at school will never be the same again. Kids will miss out on all that sniggering in the science lab. I remember it well - sitting red-faced as a series of diagrams were placed in front of us. Reproduction - the man, the woman, the erogenous zones: it was all explained in minute detail. It won't be quite the same when everything moves from the bedroom to the Petri dish.

Kids won't be party to those funny cartoons showing all the little tadpoles swimming to reach the egg. Instead, they'll see a rubber-gloved hand messing about with a syringe.

I'm relieved to say that, with my family near enough complete, I will not be able to partake of this distinctly unromantic method of conception. My relief comes not because I'd miss out on a bit of hanky panky - as readers of this column know, I'm all for that - but because I'm hopeless with the microwave.

I've committed many a blunder with the defrost button. Those precious eggs would probably end up hard-boiled.

And I'd be bound to roll in late one night after a few too many and mistake that packet of freeze-dried sperm for a Cuppa Soup.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.