“Hey, guess what scientists have discovered? We’re all made of stardust!” “Guys, you’ll never believe this — science has just mucked about with jellyfish genes to make a pig that glows in the dark!”

Science is nuts. The “science/nature news” section of the BBC website makes Heat look like Laminate Flooring News. The latest crazy trip from the world of science is the discovery that having children doesn’t irrevocably destroy your body, your mind and your faith in any method of contraception being 100 per cent reliable. No. In fact, it has now been proved to make mothers cleverer.

Scientists in California have discovered that, during pregnancy, learning and memory skills improve dramatically. Additionally, hormonal fluctuations during pregnancy, birth and lactation remodel the brain, increasing the size of neurons in some regions. From experience, I suspect that the regions in which the neurons increase would primarily be clustered around the centres governing “weeping at pictures of small kittens and/or baby monkeys”, “ability to fall asleep in a playgroup ball-pool” and “renewed appreciation of fleece”, but the scientists haven’t yet checked those out. Instead, they reckon that mothers become “more vigilant and alert”, surmising, in a flurry of end-of-research piña coladas and Billy Ocean, that when “the going gets tough, the brain gets going”.

And as anyone who has observed a mother from close range will agree, this is absolutely correct. Children are born so goddamn stupid that a mother’s principal job is to think and live for two people at once — herself, and the howling mad giblet that’s currently screwing up her viewing schedule on Lost. I’ve seen friends co-ordinate telephoned instructions on the complex delivery of a parcel, telling a six-year-old how to spell “Juninho ”, and instructing a two-year-old “Don’t squeeze the cat’s head!”, all simultaneously. And in a single out-breath, like some kind of practical-application “Om”.

Motherhood is like a benevolent, society-sustaining form of multiple-personality disorder. Well, being a woman is like a benevolent, society-sustaining form of multiple-personality disorder, but motherhood is where it reaches its apogee. I’m sure there can’t be many mothers who didn’t watch the last series of Doctor Who without a few nods of recognition — specifically the episode in which the Doctor discovered the Emperor Dalek, who was controlling the minds of the six million smaller Daleks scattered across the universe. Additionally, of course, the Emperor Dalek is much wider at the bottom than the top, rather cranky, and has a limited ability to get up stairs — although it was unlikely, in his case, to have been caused by an extra two stones and a compromised pelvic floor.

My favourite part of the new “brainy mums” research revolved around an experiment conducted on lab rats. Scientists got both virgin rats and mother rats, and compared their subsequent behaviour when placed in a cage in which crickets — a tasty rat treat — had been hidden under some wood chips. Apparently the virgins took nearly 270 seconds to find a cricket and eat it, compared with just over 50 seconds for the mothers.

Yeah — you’re right — the mother rats can find the cricket six times faster than the virgin rats. The mother rats would do anything to screw over those sonsofbitches virgin rats. The virgin rats probably saw the cricket earlier, but are pretending that they “eat like a bird”. The mother rats, on the other hand, would have crammed anything in that cage into their mouths, up to and including the virgins.

I think this experiment could have been conducted on human beings. I have certainly eaten a fairy cake that I found in a toy-box. Motherhood is like walking through a desert. Whether or not you are thirsty when you come across an oasis, you drink. You never know when your next meal will be interrupted by a four-year-old who has tried to post their hand through the letterbox, a baby wailing just for the hell of it, or a toddler spitting on the floor and screaming “Snow!”

The greatest proof of mothers’ increased brain activity is population statistics, which show the swift and inexorable decline of the birthrate — but then, I suspect another of the neurons that increased during my pregnancies was the one governing misanthropy.

It pays to be happily married

A study of 9,000 Americans concluded that staying married for life almost doubles your wealth. Assessing people’s stocks, shares, assets, bank accounts and properties, it was found that married people were, on average, 93 per cent richer than singles.

“Staying married really does increase your wealth,” Jay Zagorsky, the study’s author, said. It’s almost touching how astonished he seemed to be on discovering that not having a gigantic, messy divorce — in which all assets were divided, productivity dived and both parties had to move to Slough for a while — could lead to some manner of financial advantage.

Of course, it’s not just this that makes married couples richer. A well-matched pair will know that the secret of real happiness isn’t wearing matching Roberto Cavalli outfits while sitting on an ormolu throne at the Millionaires’ Club in Cannes, but wearing pyjamas and eating a baked potato while watching Celebrity Big Brother. With this annual cost of £149.99 (M&S pyjamas £19.99, TV licence £126.50, sack of potatoes £3.50, and maybe push the boat out with some Boursin, £1.29), no wonder married couples are rolling in it.

Gothic revival

The Rev Marcus Ramshaw, associate vicar at St Edward King and Martyr Church, Cambridge, has started holding 45-minute services for Goths. Songs by Depeche Mode, Joy Division and the Sisters of Mercy are played, and there is a special liturgy written for that subgroup for whom Ribena is primarily a way of making cider purple. “The service seeks to find new ways of making the life of the Church meaningful to people from alternative communities,” Ramshaw, himself a Goth, commented.

But, fellow brother in darkness, church services are all about a misunderstood man who got nailed to a cross. They are held in a looming, bell-towered, candle-lit edifice in the middle of a graveyard. Indeed, if you go Catholic, you get to burn incense and drink blood, as well. By contrast, playing a bit of Rasmus looks a bit, well, townie.

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