My shameful secret: I’ve abandoned ALL my godchildren!

TOBY, Will and tertius. three names that trigger a frisson of guilt whenever I (albeit rarely) think of them.

Some might find it shocking that I wouldn’t recognise them in a police lineup. Some would think it worse that I can’t even tell you how old they are because . . . um, I don’t know.

I imagine they might be in double digits by now, as all their christenings were in the nineties or thereabouts. I did manage to turn up to each with a nice present, at least.

I do not speak of my own children, of course — motherhood was not for me — but my three godchildren.

I was reminded of my inattentiveness last week, when Kate Moss was quoted in a glossy magazine gushing about her own godson: ‘Marley, I will always be there for you. I will nurture and love you forever.’

Am I alone in reaching for the sick bag?

the trouble is, christenings are a ‘big thing’ these days. not satisfied with huge, boasty weddings, the rich and famous organise christenings for their bawling, ludicrously named offspring that seem to go on for days, in a desperate grab for column inches.

And it makes wicked godmothers like me feel a little uncomfortable.

of course, when I was first asked to become a godmother — to Will — back in the mid-nineties (I was in my mid-30s), I was flattered. I was close to his mother, Jenny: she was a single mum at the time and I was her only support. I was her first visitor after she gave birth, arriving laden with flowers and grapes.

It was natural she assumed the support might continue, but soon, the father was back in their lives, she made new mummy friends and I found myself doing less and less . . . until I did nothing at all.

tertius’s mother was my oldest friend, so I was a natural choice for godmother. I was beginning to feel a little wary of the ‘role’ by this point, as I knew I wasn’t interested in babies.

I felt similar levels of enthusiasm when asked by toby’s mum, caroline — a newer friend who insisted I wouldn’t have to do anything; it was just a way of cementing our friendship. I’m afraid I took her at her word.

I was asked to be godmother twice after that, but warned them of my disliking for the role and, thankfully, they decided to look elsewhere.

ON REFLECTION, I suspect there was an assumption that, being childless, I would be thrilled to have an infant in my life, but I am one of those women who didn’t have children because she just isn’t interested.

I can see that spoiling and building a loving relationship with a friend’s child is a lovely thing if you haven’t been able to have a child yourself.

But if I’d been up for remembering christmases and birthdays and enjoyed visits to toy shops, I’d have tried to pop one out myself.

Genuinely, it wasn’t something I agonised over: I was married and divorced in my 20s, and children were never discussed.

throughout my 30s, I felt no maternal stirrings and, when I met my current boyfriend in my 40s, we were both too old, even if we had wanted a family. Ah, people say, make friends with your godchildren, as then you will have someone to look after you in your old age. they will visit you in the old people’s home and keep you young . . .

And so, five years ago, realising I was doomed to a lonely old age I tried to become a better godmother. I took my godson toby, then in his early teens, and his wonderful mum caroline out for lunch and we had a lovely time.

He was polite and wellmannered, and allowed us oldies to witter on with no sign of boredom. Yes, we must do it again, we said, but we never did. It’s not that I wouldn’t like to, but I imagine toby is old enough to be cutting a swath through the girls of london: the last thing he would want is to spend time with his ancient godmother.

I am still close to Will’s mother Jenny and, although they have moved to Ireland, we stay in touch. When Will was young, we regularly met up, but she was so desperate for grown-up time, she always left him with the au pair.

I sometimes tried to ask interested questions and did have a few years of sending birthday cards, until she explained the cards were much appreciated, but I’d been getting the date wrong. By four months.

I’m afraid I lost touch with tertius’s mother when she moved to a swanky executive home in Sussex. the transformation from bright graduate girl-about-town to Stepford wife and helicopter mother was quite terrifying.

our last meeting was 12 years ago when she invited me down for the weekend. tertius was five years old, but she was still breastfeeding. She had taken to doing a little light charity work one day a week.

‘It’s so important,’ she told me, wincing slightly as the huge infant attacked her bosom, ‘to get involved with the right sort of charity where you meet the right sort of people.’

She then proceeded to tell me of tertius’s other fantastic godparents (a captain of industry and a titled socialite). the former sent bottles of vintage wine on christmas and birthdays, so that by the time tertius was 21, he would have a proper wine cellar.

‘let’s hope he doesn’t end up in AA,’ I laughed. that didn’t go down well. She was horrified that my boyfriend was a builder and that I was volunteering in a dog rescue centre in tooting. We lost contact after that and, to our mutual relief, I was quietly sacked from my god motherly duties.

You might well wonder why someone like me was ever asked to become a godmother five times. Back in the nineties, I was social, out and about hobnobbing with the jeunesse doree. I was always organising dinner parties for well-connected friends and was a mainstay of charity balls.

I was the sort of person who might introduce a godchild to helpful people, so they could get on in life.

I suspect there was also the hopeful assumption that a comfortably-off childless godmother might lavish the little one with gifts, gold and downpayments for a starter flat — perhaps even an inheritance in the god motherly will.

SORRY, kids, but all my dosh is going to the dogs — literally. I’ve left everything to my money-sapping dog sanctuary, chimney farm. But don’t take it badly: I might not buy you a flat, but you’ll always have a kennel.

that might sound harsh, but I’m not without a scintilla of guilt. I feel even more inadequate when I discuss the godparent conundrum with friends.

‘I see my godsons all the time,’ my friend Mary, 68, told me the other day. ‘I’m like their second mother and advise them on their love lives. It’s great fun.’

Another, Jane, 56, takes her goddaughter on a swanky holiday every year. this year, it’s a cruise to the Galapagos Islands. Help!

other godmothers I know report a degree of disillusionment. take my friend Jackie, 41: ‘My goddaughter sends out a birthday present suggestion list to all her godparents. this year, she was asking for an iPhone, a laptop and a supply of frette bedlinen. It’s a real cheek.’

Interestingly, godfathers of my acquaintance do absolutely nothing and feel no guilt about it. this has to be the way forward.

to be fair, I never knew my godparents, either, so it’s not like I had positive role models.

My godmother, my mother’s best friend with whom she lost touch in the Sixties, wasn’t remotely interested. And my godfather, also my uncle, didn’t even turn up at my wedding, as he had decided to take a lastminute holiday instead.

My father recently met his nephew, David, for the first time in years and was shocked when David reminded him he was also his godfather.

clearly, it’s in the genes.

Letting go Of the glitz: One Woman’s Struggle to Live the Simple Life in Chelsea is out now in paperback.