over the evergreen summer meadow

Big family? Fine – if you're posh




Status symbols used to be fairly straightforward things. Millionaire bankers had chauffeur-driven Bentleys with discreet numberplates. Company chairmen had gold Rolexes or Hermès handbags. Russian oligarchs had super-sized yachts, complete with helipads and polonium-laced sushi. Cabinet ministers had capacious garages stocked with jerry cans.

Yet I've noticed, of late, that the business of acquiring a status symbol has got more complex. Partly, of course, it is because in these times of economic austerity, it behoves the rich and successful to appear slightly less rich and successful in order to make the rest of us feel better.

But instead of abandoning their baubles of smugness, it seems that the top 1% have simply found another way of displaying their superiority: children.

So it was that, in an interview with Grazia magazine, we were once again reminded that the incredibly impressive Helena Morrissey is not only CEO of a City investment company in charge of £50bn who campaigns for more women in the boardroom in her spare time, but that she also has nine children. Nine. That's two more dwarves than ran after Snow White.

Morrissey confessed to Grazia that she had always wanted five, six was a "happy accident" and before you could say "Can Magda do an extra day each week?" she'd only gone and pushed out another three.

It's not just Morrissey. Bob Diamond, the chief executive of Barclays, has four. So does Michael Hintze, the millionaire hedge fund baron who enjoys "kitchen suppers" at Number 10.

According to acquaintances who work in the banking sector, four kids is the minimum if you want to be sure of any kind of career progression. Two is seen as unnecessarily retro – a hangover from a bygone era when portion sizes were smaller. Three is indecisive. It's only when you get to four that you can call yourself a player; and when you do get to four, the status inferred is automatic.

In the lower reaches of society, having too many children is seen either as evidence of a conspicuous lack of self-control (see Shameless) or a cunning ruse to get more child benefits. For the ultra-privileged, a bevy of children sends out a different message that not only can you afford nannies, school fees and holidays several times over, but that you are preposterously, jaw-droppingly fertile. Sure, I earn a healthy annual salary, it says, but you can't buy ovaries like these.

Then there's the bonus of being able to use your children as evidence that you know what it's like to juggle priorities. You're a working parent, after all. Of course you have some help, but it's not like you're only having to deal with the piddling amount of children most of us contend with. No, you've got a von Trapp-sized family of Brora-clad rugrats to keep amused with private tutors and trips to the Maldives.

Call it the Victoria Beckham effect, if you will: the genuinely held belief that you can connect with "real people" because you simply can't stop procreating.

"For me it's no different than it is for a lot of women out there," Beckham confided in an interview with Women's Wear Daily last year, shortly after the birth of her fourth child. "It's like juggling glass balls. I love it."

Then, earlier this month, Beckham tweeted a photograph of a tray of pork pies, sausage rolls and British-themed nibbles that she had apparently cooked for "International Food Day" at her sons' school.

We were invited to marvel at this extraordinary feat of human endeavour: a woman who not only designs dresses, has four children – count 'em – but who is also capable of sliding cubes of cheese and pineapple onto a cocktail stick! She's really just like us, isn't she?

It's not that I don't like Victoria Beckham – I do. I also think the vast majority of working parents are admirable. But using children as a status symbol simply feeds into the broader fetishisation of child-rearing: all those painful Facebook status updates about adorable little Johnny doing a poo in the bath (followed by a series of supportive comments with smiley-faced emoticons saying things like: "You hang in there, girl!").

Having children is, I'm sure, a wonderful thing. Honestly – some of my best friends are parents.

It's just that I don't believe having loads of them should – in and of itself – be cause for congratulation. Being able to cook a pork pie, though. Now that's a talent worth celebrating.

We'll call you … many times

Spare a thought for Dilcie Fleming, the 81-year-old great-grandmother from Dallas, Texas, whofound herself at the centre of unwanted attention after teen popstrel Justin Bieber posted the first half of his phone number on Twitter and encouraged his 19 million followers to guess the final digit. "Call me right now," he urged with the foolhardy enthusiasm of a typical 18-year-old.

Alas, tens of thousands of hormonal adolescents ended up calling Dilcie instead. Rather than being thrilled at the discovery that she had almost the same phone number as the youngest chart-topping solo male since 1963, Dilcie was fairly put out. "I answered the phone only because I thought maybe it was a family member," she said. "I explained that it wasn't Justin's phone number. I hung up and my phone rang again. But the voicemails kept coming and they're still going on."

Dilcie said she'd like an apology from Bieber. And then, displaying all the wiliness one might expect from a woman born in the Great Depression, she added: "And possibly concert tickets for two great-granddaughters."