On a brisk autumn morning, a dear friend of mine, who is my age, arrives with her delightful two-year-old granddaughter perched on her hip. The little girl, a bundle of joy with a head full of blonde curls, is clad in an adorable woolen onesie from the White Company, tiny Ugg boots, and wears a smile that could melt anyone’s heart. Today, she’s visiting to meet my two mares, who, in a way, are my own big, hairy, and high-maintenance children. As her tiny starfish-like hand reaches out to touch the velvet nose of one of my horses, her eyes widen in wonder. Even my typically grumpy thoroughbred softens, lowering her head to accept a carrot. In a fleeting moment, I find myself wishing this little girl were mine.

The thought of the pride I would feel, the things I could show her, teach her, and give her, fills my mind. Imagining dressing her up brings a wave of emotion. My friend then starts talking about Christmas plans—the bustling table, daughters returning home, the joyous noise—and it brings me to the brink of tears when I consider my own festive season.

There’s no need to make grand preparations or book a slot at Waitrose for a big family gathering, as it will just be me this year. There will be no one to pull crackers with or to decorate the house for.

It makes me ponder: how did I reach this point at the age of 67, without children or a partner? Statistics suggest that women without children or a life partner often lead happier, richer, and more sociable lives, and even tend to live longer.

How did I get here: 67, child- and partner-free? Statistics tell us that women without children and a life partner are happier, richer, more sociable and likely to live longer.

Is that true? Today one in five women in the UK is childfree (never call me ‘childless’) at the age of 45, either by choice or circumstance. Will the far higher proportion of women now in their 20s and 30s not having children (in 1971, 18 per cent of women aged 30 had no children, today it’s 50 per cent, according to the ONS) live to regret their choice or celebrate it?

There are many reasons women are choosing not to become mums: economic constraints (it’s hard to plan a family if you’re renting a one-bedroom), not having met the right partner, wanting and prioritising a career or to travel. They might be infertile or they simply might not like kids.

The term ‘childfree’ was first coined in the late Sixties as women gained control over their fertility and feminism took hold (one group was called No Kidding!).

Liz Jones: How did I get here, 67, child-and partner-free? Statistics tell us women without children and a life partner are happier, richer, more sociable and likely to live longer

Today, being barren can be a badge of courage, not misfortune. Militant childfree feminists or ‘anti-natalists’ even demand reparations: we don’t access maternity services, paid leave, education, child support, mother and baby parking spaces, so why should we pay for them?

International Childfree Day is on August 1, though its stated purpose isn’t to bash mothers because ‘it’s too late, they suffer sufficiently’! Parents are selfish, with an allegiance to the social norm and lack of imagination, say these activists.

Childfree women also claim to have more sex. As Verena Brunschweiger, PhD and author, who has received death threats for her views, wrote in this paper: ‘I can’t imagine having sex with someone whose clothes bear remnants of baby vomit. Whose only conversation is about children’s nutrition and excretions, school trips and so forth.

‘Do men really find a woman who moans and whines, cajoles and hovers, Hoovers, shops and cooks in an endless, super busy groundhog day cycle a turn on?

‘I’m not abusing or hurting anyone. In fact, our decision not to procreate improves the lives of millions of ­children: one child in the West uses 30 times the resources of an African child, often born to women who have no ­control over their fertility, no choice.’

Yikes! Intellectually, I agree with all of the above, but as I watch the little girl meet my horse, imagine popping her on the mare’s warm back, I can’t help but feel inadequate, that I’ve missed out on life’s most fulfilling joy.

I’m an excellent aunt. I loved introducing my nephew to films, his first Apple laptop, his first XBox. I even took him to Africa to scuba dive.

I look at my nieces, now mothers themselves, and I love them but can’t take any credit for their beauty (though I think some of my genes came good, as they love fashion and make-up).

Yet I see them rarely, have lost touch with my nephew entirely, and the grief is visceral. Why no contact? Their parents were jealous of my largesse, or perhaps an aunt is one obligation too many for today’s busy Millennials and Gen Zs?

Not having children was never calculated. Like most things in life, it just happened. Was I unlucky, or did I dodge a bullet?

When I really drill down into my feelings on the matter, I’ll wager the domestic grind and worry far outweigh the magical moments.

I’m the youngest of seven. My family wasn’t well off. My dad had served in the Army, while my mum was a housewife: she never drove a car or opened a bank account.

While Dad was an uncomplaining provider, helpful in an old-school way I doubt most men are these days – he mowed the lawn, did the school run, mended things, put Mum first – I saw how exhausted she was and vowed never to endure that sort of slavery. The hour-long bus ride for the weekly shop. The endless laundry, done with a tub and a mangle.

Everything was cooked from scratch – she made every loaf of bread we ate while a takeaway was unheard of.

She’d iron once we’d gone to bed. My sisters had dolls, but I never did. I would sit on my rocking horse, aghast at the mind-numbing domesticity. The ingratitude.

Basking in reflected glory by not inflicting more humans on the planet while being a white saviour is not sustainable once the hard grind kicks in (picture posed by models)

Mum would spend hours cooking the Sunday roast, only for the meal to end with my ­brothers arguing with my dad, never clearing their plates or helping with the washing-up.

I became anorexic aged 11. Did I want to be thin like the Twiggy I saw on mum’s knitting patterns (she made all our clothes)? Or did I want to avoid becoming a woman at all? Boys seemed to bring my sisters only heartbreak followed by boiling nappies and spooning gloop into mouths.

No thank you.

I was shy in my 20s (exacerbated by being deaf; in such a busy household, no one noticed), life-threateningly thin and afraid of men – I only menstruated a handful of times, so the thought of accidentally getting pregnant wasn’t the issue.

I felt too unattractive to have a boyfriend – inexplicable, as I’ve learned men aren’t fussy; I see women in Tesco with a baby and think, ‘Who on earth would have sex with that?’ – and felt I didn’t deserve or want a ‘normal’ life.

Instead, I concentrated on my career. I was working on a Sunday broadsheet and prided myself on being the last to leave the office, having seen my female co-workers spend every lunchtime shopping for food, returning with full carrier bags they’d decant to the office fridge, then spending all afternoon on the phone to nannies or husbands, barking instructions, haring out the door on the dot.

I knew I would never have children when the surgeon who carried out my breast reduction surgery – I’d been force-fed steroids to stimulate my appetite; the drugs made my breasts grow pendulous – explained he had relocated my nipples, meaning I would never breast feed.

I was 29 and looked at him as if to say, ‘And?’

When I got married in my early 40s to a much younger man, I thought what we had was perfect. Enough. Like Carrie and Big. My gorgeous house, a sports car, my glamorous job as an editor with its freebie exotic holidays, designer clothes. I did Pilates, I was funny, interesting and really bloody helpful in getting the lazy b**tard employment (he was also a writer, so I got him an agent and allowed him to quit his job to write a novel).

Nope. Still wasn’t enough. The manchild who could barely dress himself uttered one night in bed a sentence that still gives me chills: ‘I need to be a dad, and you can’t give me that.’

I should have realised this was a ruse to leave – he was still using a condom, after all. But of course, being a woman, wanting to hang onto this man, though heaven knows why, I thought I’d try, it would be fine.

The child would not inherit my body dysmorphia, my food phobia and my husband wouldn’t leave. He would look at the beautiful object we had made and be grateful I gave him that gift, far better than the car, the Rolex et al.

Deep down, I knew he wanted out; he was already having affairs. So, I secretly stole his sperm from a condom. I didn’t get pregnant because I had inflicted so much damage on my body by starving myself and over-exercising. I suggested we adopt, and for a while we went down that route.

I filled in endless forms and we got as far as having my house (he didn’t contribute financially) inspected and friends interrogated by social workers.

I liked the altruistic aspect of adoption, relished the idea of a brown-skinned baby (my ex-husband is Indian) who didn’t ruin my body, and even suggested we adopt a disabled baby.

But my reasons for wanting to become a parent were all wrong. Basking in reflected glory by not inflicting more humans on the planet while being a white saviour is not sustainable once the hard grind kicks in.

Could I cook each day? Keep the fridge stocked? By myself, since I had a husband who never lifted a finger?

I was by then working 14 hours a day on a morning tabloid. One night I left the office as usual at 8.30pm, called to say I was starving, and he said, ‘You won’t be able to work those hours once we have a baby.’

I knew he wouldn’t step up, and I would never step down. I’m easily bored. I had a friend to stay and she was so obsessed with her son she brought his baby blankets and soft toys and expected me to coo over Kanga. She had no idea who Hillary Clinton was. She had no non-baby anecdotes.

I know it’s mean to denigrate mums, but they have no compunction about looking down on me. ‘What on earth do you do on Christmas Day?’ said one. I occasionally got passed over for assignments due to being childfree – I was eager to cover the terrible tragedy at Dunblane in 1996, when I was 37, but my editor turned me down because I couldn’t possibly imagine what it was like to lose a child of my own.

But on the whole, being barren has worked to my advantage. What other middle-aged woman would drop everything on a ­Friday night and hare to Glastonbury? Or abandon house guests to cover Cannes?

The idea a child will cement a marriage is ludicrous. And the thought of having to remain in contact with an ex-husband for birthdays, graduations, weddings, would be torture: the chippy resentment, the blame. How do divorced mums stand it?

Mothers ask: Who will look after me in old age? That’s the worst reason to have a baby – I would never grow a carer

My most recent boyfriend had his ex-wife and young daughter, who live abroad, to stay for Christmas and resented every second. In a photo on the London Eye, he looks as if he were facing a firing squad.

He complained he would need ‘three days of rest’ to recover. Kids aren’t catnip to men.

Mums often ask whether I worry about who will care for me in old age, which is the worst possible reason to become a parent: I would never grow a carer.

What’s the guarantee they’d look after me? Studies show that old people without children and grandchildren aren’t lonelier than their peers who did have a family. My mum had seven children, but most moved away, to Scotland, the Middle East, Australia. Only one sister and I were on hand to help.

I would love to spend summers in a villa, a table beneath a pergola, children scampering. I’d have loved to pass on passions: horses, dogs, travel, books, fashion, film (when my nephew was little, we’d watch 1930s screwball comedies and 1950s classics; Dial M for Murder was his favourite).

I’d love to leave a mini me, someone who would think of me sometimes, even into their own old age, but in fact what will happen is that I will simply disappear, for ever.

I’ve organised a no-fuss cremation, no funeral, as I doubt anyone would turn up.

I’m a great mum to many animals, so I know I have a capacity for patience, love and hard work. I’d have loved to introduce someone kind to the world – a vet, a doctor, a nurse – but there’s no guarantee children will turn out how you want them to, or that they will even like you.

One statistic, which is boring but I do think is true, shows that women in their 60s who haven’t had children are healthier.

A study based on the US Census showed that women with no biological children were in better health both physically and financially. I have a washboard stomach, am varicose vein-free and have a disposable income to lavish on myself. (The actress Betty White, who lived to 99, said her longevity was due to being childfree.) My mum, by huge contrast, lost her career as a ballerina as well as all her teeth, was crippled by arthritis and permanently exhausted. She worried about us, and about money, from the moment we were born.

I was aghast when I took my sister, a mum of one (how hard can that be? Try being mum to three collies!) to the spa at Babington House in Somerset as a treat and she told me she’d never had a facial or a massage. ‘I don’t have the time or money,’ she said crossly. ‘Joe needs new shoes.’ (An important point: kids are costly, so please don’t criticise the fact I have horses.)

And is that what we teach our kids: women must be martyrs? That without a child we are frivolous and unfulfilled? What I’ve done is put myself first, and that’s no crime.