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Britain's oldest mother and her new son is a sickening picture that makes me shudder

By Allison Pearson for the Daily Mail
Updated: 04:47 EDT, 3 June 2009 Blinkered: Elizabeth Adeney arriving home with her new baby son Jolyon, to become Britain's oldest mother at 66

Very rarely does the Mail's front page make me shout and hurl the paper across the kitchen.

But that's exactly what I did yesterday, seeing the picture of 66-year-old Elizabeth Adeney cuddling her new-born baby.

As if burdening your son with an old mother wasn't damaging enough, she is reported to have named her tiny boy Jolyon. Marvellous.

So the poor kid can look forward to a childhood of being teased for having a girly name while having a granny for a mum. Start saving for the therapy sessions now, Mrs Adeney.

This is further proof that she thinks of no one but her blinkered self. 'It's not physical age that's important - it's how I feel inside,' trills Britain's oldest mother.

But how does she think her son will feel inside when he's old enough to realise that the parent he loves and relies on won't be around to support him beyond his mid-teens, at best, and that (since his mother became pregnant from an anonymous sperm donor) he has no father or aunts and uncles to rally round?

The bleak truth is that this mother hasn't spared a thought for her child's feelings. If she had, the wealthy businesswoman wouldn't have pursued a fantasy and travelled to the Ukraine for IVF.

There is a very good reason why fertility clinics in Britain have an upper age limit of 50. As a spokesman for the Church of England said: 'A child is a gift, not a right.

'For those who have never received that gift, we can well understand their desire to have children, but it is always important to think about what is really in the child's best interests.'

Generally, I melt into a helpless puddle of broodiness when I see any picture of a mother cradling a newborn. Birth is the everyday miracle which never loses its capacity to induce joy and wonder.

But looking at Elizabeth Adeney and her new-born son, I shuddered.

There is something ghoulish about the way a woman, who is only four years off her three score years and ten, is heavily made up in a parody of youthfulness.

In her arms, she holds the tiny boy whose name means 'Young at heart'. Is that meant to be a joke, and if so, at whose expense?

More from Allison Pearson for the Daily Mail...

Mrs Adeney scorns the suggestion that her child may need something as useful and valuable as a father. 'I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself. I've done it for years,' she says.

I'm sure I'm not the only mother to be determined to stay alive for as long as I possibly can to look after my children.

I know people of Mrs Adeney's age who are reluctant even to take on the responsibilities of a new puppy - never mind a child - in case it outlives them.

Most parents would hope to give at least 30 loving years to their offspring. What kind of fool thinks she is entitled to have a 66-year age gap?

Every parent must one day have that difficult conversation when their child reaches the age when they realise all living things must die - including their parents.

I told my two that Himself and I would be there for as long as they needed us; in any case, by the time we were gone, they'd have children of their own to take care of.

I wouldn't want to be Elizabeth Adeney when her son asks: 'When are you going to die, Mummy?'

Carnival of cruelty? No, just good fun

After Susan Boyle's sad collapse, does everyone who watched Britain's Got Talent really think they should feel ashamed for enjoying what is now being portrayed as a carnival of cruelty? No, me neither.

Actually, I suspect most of the 19million people who tuned in to Saturday's final did so not to mock the contestants or enjoy their failure, as critics have suggested.

I'm guessing that, like my family, most were on the edge of the sofa, rooting like mad for their favourites and relishing the high standard of performance. On edge: Most of Britain's Got Talent viewers would have been rooting for their favourites such as Susan Boyle

In our house, the small boy, who had been backing the dance troupe Diversity from the start, was overjoyed.

The daughter was voting furiously for singer Shaun Smith. (Not entirely on artistic grounds, mind you: along with half of the UK's girl teenagers, she'd suddenly decided she fancied becoming Mrs Smith).

Me, I was voting for Susan Boyle, of course, but with a pang for Aidan Davis, a brilliant young dancer who deserves a shot at playing Billy Elliot.

Then there was soulful Julian, the saxophonist; and 2 Grand, who bore witness to the love between grandparents and their grandchildren.

Yes, there were some squirmy moments, as there always are with amateurs. And I would definitely raise the age limit for young contestants next year.

Still, just as it seemed that our MPs had soured this country and steeped it in cynicism, here were people of all ages and backgrounds making us feel better about ourselves.

Let the BNP do their worst in tomorrow's election; one look down the line-up on Saturday night and you could see just how wrong the party's leader, Nick Griffin, and his kind are about this tolerant nation of ours.

Of course, we were right to worry about Susan Boyle. Who could have predicted the tidal wave of fame that engulfed her; would any of us have survived it unscathed?

But that shouldn't take away from the genuine joys that the show delivered.

So why won't male MPs do the gentlemanly thing? Bowing out: Jacqui Smith arriving at Downing Street amid revelations that she is resigning as Home Secretary

So Jacqui Smith is to resign as Home Secretary, taking her bathplug (88p) with her. Good riddance. I'm sure she'll make a lovely traffic warden. If they'll have her, that is.

Realistically, Ms Smith was never going to recover from the revelation that the public had paid for her husband's porn habit. It must have left her feeling very blue.

She says she was 'hurt' by allegations about her expenses. I bet she was. Not as hurt, however, as the poor taxpayer.

We found it hard to believe that we had picked up the tab for a £1,100 antique fireplace in her 'second home' - otherwise known as the Smiths' main family residence in Redditch.

Lying about where you live and claiming for items you have no right to is normally the province of benefits cheats. A Home Secretary is supposed to stop such people, not join them.

Ms Smith was the first woman to occupy that great office of state, and what a letdown she has been to her sex.

The job comes with a lovely grace-and-favour residence. Instead, Jacqui opted to doss down in the spare bedroom of her sister's house in South London.

All to make a few extra bob. Where was the woman's sense of pride and dignity, for heaven's sake?

Jacqui Smith had to go. However, what bothers me is why it is mostly women MPs (Tory Julie Kirkbride and Labour's Margaret Moran) doing the decent thing and quitting, while their male colleagues (who are guilty of the same sins or worse) cling on by their grubby fingertips?

Women are undoubtedly far more sensitive to criticism than men. Our skins are thinner, we want - and even need - to be liked.

But, if Jacqui Smith's position was untenable, what about her Cabinet colleague Alistair Darling, who's belatedly paid back expenses he claimed for a flat he wasn't living in?

No, Alistair, we taxpayers don't want your measly 384 quid. Instead, we wish you'd done the right thing in the first place.

Why should the women do the gentlemanly thing and walk the plank while the blokes get to stay on the bridge of Gordon's repellently blokeish administration?

Now you can lick 007 into shape The licence to chill: Del Monte's new fruit lolly in the shape of James Bond star Daniel Craig

Apparently, it's National Ice Cream Week. Del Monte (the people who brought you the man in the white suit and his famous pineapple chunks), have branched out to produce a special-edition fruit lolly in the shape of Daniel Craig. That's right: you can legally lick James Bond.

Apparently there was a competition to find the Englishman whom the public considered 'the coolest smoothie'.

And it was won, not surprisingly, by the man in the bathing trunks with all his pineapple chunks in the right place.

The frosty Daniel comes in three flavours: blueberry, pomegranate, and cranberry. The result is amazingly lifelike, although the pomegranate does have the unfortunate look of frozen blood . . . like a winning entry for the Turner Prize.

Sadly, I haven't yet been able to get my greedy paws on one yet, so I can't say whether it's better to bite off the head first, or if, as with a Mini Milk, you should start at the bottom so as to stop it dripping.

Thank you, Del Monte, for bringing an edible 007 into our lives. I predict that the Daniel Craig lolly will be the melting sensation of the summer.

But, please, let's stop the trend here because I gather that included among the other blokes who made it into Del Monte's top ten are Jude Law, Tom Jones and David Cameron.

If there was ever a time when we didn't need to cool down by licking a politician, it is now. Alistair Darling on a stick? No thanks!


Elizabeth Adeney, Britain's oldest mother, and her new son is a sickening picture that makes me shudder