Nice try, breeders. Cunning of you to start a conspiracy in which all things collapsible in middle yoof can be blamed on a sudden profusion of nippers.

However, the equally slumped form of the lone rangers among us attests to the fact that thirty- and fortysomething subsidence has nothing to do with spawning, and everything to do with a general renunciation of bright eye and bushy tail. It’s just that breeders have stumbled across an excuse.

A long-time refusenik in her late thirties writes: “I’m seriously considering dropping a couple of sprogs simply to address the fact that I no longer possess any ambition. It would be far more socially acceptable to condemn the working mothers’ glass ceiling at dinner parties than to admit that I no longer give two hoots about slithering up the greasy pole.”

The same applies to one’s physique. A male correspondent notes: “I was lamenting my middle-aged spread the other day when the barman said, ‘Don’t worry, mate. All blokes put on a bit of lard when the missus starts stowing buns in the oven.’ Only I’m single, homosexual, and not expecting said buns any time soon.”

As for maintaining a vigorous sex life, imagine the horror of having to unveil this mass of slumped and slothful inadequacy to a new audience. Nope, one is considerably more likely to be at it on a regular basis within a long-term relationship than without, if only to avoid having to talk.

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