Sunday Times Column: My eggs are up for grabs



Like most ridiculous ideas, I had this one at a party. Although, unlike some, the morning after it still seemed inspired. Halfway through a bottle of Cava, listening to a gay friend lament that he’d spent two years trying adopt a child, inspiration flashed at me through the bubbles, and I interrupted enthusiastically: “Why bother?! You could use a surrogate and have my eggs.”

“Really?” he seemed surprised. “Sure, why the hell not!” I giggled.

Now, less boozily blasé, I feel the same way. Oooh, a baby! A mini-me! And I wouldn’t even have to look after it! Why wouldn’t I give my eggs to a friend? A man who would make a wonderful father, who wants to give love to a child in a way I currently don’t. And who has the home, the money, and lifestyle to do it. “What if it gets your brains and my looks?” I giggled. But he wasn’t smiling.

Giving eggs to a gay couple feels like a pragmatic expression of the equality I believe in, slacktivist as it may seem. I wouldn’t actually have to get pregnant; I wouldn’t have to give up work or stop clubbing. It wouldn’t stop me having kids later, if I want them. And if I don’t, I’ve already done the narcissist bit….



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