I sometimes wonder if parenthood isn’t the ultimate cult. The procreators extol the virtues of joining them — “the most fulfilling decision you will ever make” — to attract new members. It’s only when you’ve signed up that you truly understand that it entails sleep-deprivation, chauffeuring slavery and years of partial house arrest, while all your spare cash disappears. Recruits rarely escape; it’s the one job you can’t really quit.

I’m being facetious. Clearly, being a parent brings great joy to many, while involuntary childlessness can be devastating. But what’s disturbing is the way reproduction has become increasingly fetishised and idealised in Western society. We may be becoming more secular, but we’re going back to worshipping the fertility gods too. There’s some logic to that: when people stop believing in eternal life, the easiest way to achieve an after-life is to pass on your genes.

This cultish celebration of reproduction portrays parenthood as the apogee of achievement. It can also paint a false picture of family life as idyllic. The ultimate example of this is the American website The Glow — a “glimpse into the world of inspiring and fashionable moms”. There are no snotty noses, smelly nappies or mastitis-y breasts here; just glossy, smiling mothers and children wearing Ralph Lauren.

That’s why it’s refreshing when someone challenges this consensus. This week, a father-of-three, Joel Andresier, put an advertisement for a green buggy on eBay that ended up going viral. This green monster, he said, “signifies everything that ended my happy, care-free, low-cost, child-free life”. He describes the school run as a particular low-point, because he’s forced to discuss “the price of Center Parcs holidays and the benefits of the micro over the mini-micro scooter.” Frankly, this would make a better ad for the tube-tying clinic.

Andresier was joking, his wife hopes. But the reason his ad attracted such attention was because he was hinting at something few admit: parenthood isn’t for everyone, nor does it always feel enjoyable or rewarding.

As a child-free woman of the age (30) at which the Daily Mail wants me to start panicking over my unused ovaries, I’m tired of the implication that I’d be failing if I don’t pop out a sprog. Our society has generally become much more accepting of different lifestyles, yet we still judge the child-free minority harshly. They’re selfish. Emotionally-stunted. Plain deluded. If you dare to suggest you might not want children, people will nod knowingly and say “you’ll change your mind” as though they’ve shined a spotlight up your cervix and discovered maternal impulses unknown to you. A good response, incidentally, is to smile and say: “I’m sure your heterosexuality is just a phase you’re going through too.”

The child-free are not just judged though, we’re also neglected. In the run-up to the general election, we’ll hear a lot about “hard-working families”. When politicians want to win the female vote, they’ll reveal their favourite biscuit on Mumsnet, and dream up pro-natalist policies. No one chases the childless vote, while few lobby for their rights.

As Andresier notes, happiness is not always found while pushing a Bugaboo. Humanity can achieve more than simple self-perpetuation.

Flashy, trashy and camp — the royal family?

Liz Hurley, the nation’s most famous purveyor of beef jerky, is starring in a new drama about the British monarchy, The Royals. The trailer, released this week, is ultra-camp, flashy and trashy. From the few lines of dialogue it includes — mostly the sound is just a woman breathily repeating “sex, money, drugs, power” in her sex-line voice — I’d estimate that roughly £2.64 of the budget was spent on the script.

Given the picture of the monarchy it presents, though — a beaver-baring princess, Liz H instead of Liz W, the blue-blooded being carried on sedan chairs — I wonder if it isn’t just canny PR for the House of Windsor. It could all be a lot worse, the series implies.

In fact, perhaps this is evidence Prince Edward continued his TV production career on the sly; the Royals seems stamped with his artistic vision.

Let’s all ring alarm bells at bad drivers

The problem for the London cyclist is that all the blood pressure-lowering benefits of exercise can be undone by the stress of London’s streets. It’s hard to be Zen about all the bad driving you see. My personal bugbears are drivers who toot at you for failing to hug parked cars (I value my trachea too highly) and those who stop in the bicycle boxes at junctions (Addison Lee’s mini-cabs are repeat offenders).

The great joy of cycling, though, is that there’s a two-wheeled camaraderie. You never ride alone. When I was knocked off my bike, many pulled over to offer help. And it’s cathartic to moan at the lights about the van that just cut the pair of you up.

I wish we could take that collective strength and use it to embarrass dangerous drivers. Pedal power could involve co-ordinated withering glares whenever a car is blocking the cycle box or, even better, fitting your bike with a sounder that repeats “warning: bad driver nearby” which we could press in unison.

Under perilous siege from euphemisms

London is under siege from adjectives. The same five — prestigious, luxurious, leading, bespoke and renowned — seem to pop up everywhere: the “luxurious” development, the “leading” sexpert, the “bespoke” playlist at the type of gym where you imagine Jefferson Hack might pump his guns. Each one is awful — and yes, before you Google, I’m sure I’m guilty of using them all.

Of course, they all really mean something else. “Luxurious”, “prestigious” and “bespoke” have all become euphemisms for “over-priced”. If you’re the “leading” business in your industry, you’re neither the biggest nor the most successful or you would say so. And if you describe yourself as “renowned”, it usually means you think you should be far more famous than you actually are.

@RosamundUrwin