In a move that has sent social policy mandarins scurrying for their smelling salts, a new study has dared to give voice to a demographic traditionally ignored by the chattering classes: women without sprogs. Yes, the childless hordes have spoken, and the findings are enough to make a Daily Mail columnist weep into his flat white.
The study, published in the British Journal of Something or Other, reveals that childless women are not, in fact, weeping into their gin while clutching a cold, empty womb. Instead, they are rather enjoying their lives. Shockingly, some even prefer sleeping in on Sundays, spending their disposable income on things that are not miniature wellies, and not having their conversations derailed by discussion of nappy rash.
Enter Sir Reginald Hodgepodge, a self-appointed social policy analyst with a monocle and a pension for stating the bleedin' obvious. 'This is a worrying trend,' he bellowed from the comfort of his Oxford common room. 'If women continue to reject their biological destiny, the fabric of British society will unravel. Who will clean the streets? Who will man the charity shops? Who will produce the next generation of Brexit voters?'
The study, however, paints a different picture. It suggests that childless women are more likely to volunteer, have higher earnings, and engage in cultural activities. They are not the barren, bitter spinsters of Victorian lore but rather a vibrant, contributing segment of society that has simply opted out of the vomit-and-nappy years.
But the policy wonks are not appeased. Today, a parliamentary committee on 'Family Values and Other Mythical Creatures' convened to discuss the crisis. Suggestions included a 'Baby Tax' on childless women, compulsory auntie duties, and a national registry of empty wombs to be monitored by the state. 'We must incentivise breeding,' said MP Penny Wainwright, her voice trembling with patriotic fervour. 'Otherwise, we'll have to import more Poles.'
Meanwhile, the childless women themselves remain remarkably unbothered. 'I'm too busy enjoying my life to care what Sir Reginald thinks,' said one, sipping a martini in a wine bar that doesn't have a soft play area. 'If the ship is sinking because of me, then I'm on the lifeboat. Cheers.'
This reporter, having personally rejected the joys of paternity in favour of perpetual adolescence, can only applaud. The empire may crumble, the pension pots may run dry, but by God, we'll have had fun. And isn't that what the British spirit is all about?
