Once, when I was about eight, my mum handed me a sandwich, and I remarked: 'What are those weird things on your hands?' I was referring to the visible pores, which were such a contrast to my own alabaster-smooth skin. My mum looked mortified, while my grandma laughed and said: 'They're nothing - look at mine!'
We actively encourage teenagers not to have babies, we applaud young career women in their twenties, then before you know it you find yourself, as I did, aged 32 at a friend's wedding and being quizzed by everyone about why you haven't got round to reproducing yet.
I'm not suggesting for a minute that you settle for the first half-decent man who comes along - every woman has the right to hold out for Mr Right - but you may find that really addressing your feelings about having a family means the man you thought was Mr Right comes in a different form.
I look at my gorgeous girl and boy, with their incredible zest for life, and I count my undoubted blessings. But there's no question about it: I wish I'd started my family sooner. Much much sooner.
How many of those forty-something celebrities, staring out from the covers of magazines with their beautiful babies, have conceived naturally, or without assistance? Not as many as you might think I would wager - yet for so many women they act as fertility beacons, a symbol of hope in a landscape of diminishing fertility.
My closet contains plenty of clothes I don't wear any more, a few I've never worn and one or two items I still struggle to believe I ever bought in the first place.
As a presenter on 'Daybreak,' I am lucky in that we have a brilliant wardrobe lady who chooses our on-screen clothes.
I'm a danger to myself and others in expensive, designer shops, as they send me giddy with excitement, causing me to snap up all manner of silly things.