To mangle the words of Jane Austen, it is a truth universally unacknowledged that not all women are maternal.

Kitty Peck and the Child of Ill Fortune

Kitty Peck and the Child of Ill Fortune

Before I write anything else, I should make it clear that I like children - I really do. I've just never wanted one of my own.

If there was ever a maternal bone in my body, it must have been extracted with my tonsils and adenoids when I was three - around the same time my mum was pregnant and I was asked by an aunt whether I wanted "a little brother or sister to play with?" Allegedly, after giving the proposition careful consideration, I said I'd rather have a dog.

Although I have only one sibling (I never did get the dog) I grew up in a large family, teeming with cousins of all ages. It wasn't uncommon during visits for a baby to be thrust into my infant arms like a living, leaking Tiny Tears.

Female relatives would beam down at me, fondly imagining that this was the sort of treat every little girl dreams of, and I would stare at the puce-faced innocent and wonder what all the fuss was about.

In fifty years, nothing has dented that blithe indifference. When my dearest friends have asked if I "want to have a snuggle" with their new-borns, I've cradled away like a Renaissance Madonna - more from a sense of not wanting to disappoint than an actual desire to feel a child in my arms.

I know this is probably unusual. I have childless friends who are reduced to tears by the scent of Johnson's Baby Powder and I feel for them, truly, but as I don't share their pain I don't feel entitled to have 'that' conversation.

They probably regard me with suspicion. Either I am lying, they think, or I'm a freak of nature.

If I'm being strictly honest, there are times when my lovely godchildren (yes - I do have some!) amaze me. I've been married for twenty years and just occasionally I catch myself wondering what our children might have turned out like.

But it's a casual passing thought, not a smarting reminder. To put it into perspective, I'm a terrible cook, but that doesn't stop me reading Nigel Slater's recipe's and wondering how they might taste If I had a go.

No, I'm not maternal, but I am something else...

It was a Sunday afternoon, wine-fuelled conversation with my oldest friend about the meaning of life that persuaded me to 'conceive.' I have a woolly rose-tinted hope that there might be something on the 'other side'. She, on the other hand, is a confirmed atheist. As we sat in the garden watching her children play she pointed and said: "That's my afterlife, Kate. I'll live on through them."

It set me thinking.

I'm no psychologist (as you can probably tell), but I'm pretty sure writing has been a subconscious act of creation - an attempt to leave something to the world to show I had once been in it. And I don't think it's a coincidence that I started to write at a time when the possibility of having a child was no longer on the agenda. I've read that many women approaching the menopause experience a creative surge - it's Mother Nature unleashing the floodgates for one big last hurrah before your womb hangs out a 'do not disturb' sign.

For some that 'surge' can literally result in a surprisingly late pregnancy, for others it's about finally finding a vocation or waking a dormant talent. I suspect my 'children' are the characters in my books and I hope that at some point in the distant future, people might read them and wonder about me.

The shameful truth is that I'm not maternal - I'm vain!