MY DAD's back over from Sicily. He's been here for Christmas and spending as much time with his grandson as he possibly can. Which is a lot. Let me explain.

My father is Sicilian. And Sicilians LOVE their sons, grandsons and nephews. In other words, to be born male in Sicily is to be born to rule the world. I mean, they might get to play for Juventus -- Italy even. Girls couldn't do that. They could wash the kits.

Now, as the only daughter of a Sicilian, my job was to provide the grandsons. While my brothers went about their business, sowing their wild oats, drinking red wine and driving fast cars while wearing sunglasses, I was urged to find a suitable husband.

Then, thought my father, my life would be complete. Husband, sons, spaghetti and the broadening of my beam.

However, I had other ideas. Very nice ones too. Like my brothers, I too would drink copious amounts of red wine, drive very fast cars and carve out a career.

My mother's side of the family -- all British -- thought I'd mapped it out perfectly. Yet, when I visited my family in Sicily they viewed me with some pity.

My grandmother and aunts would look at me, sympathetically pat my tummy and cluck. "Bambini no?"

"No, not yet," I'd reply ...... again and again. But it was when I'd hit my mid-30s the mood changed. Their sympathy had vanished. They now regarded me as barren and I could almost feel the tumbleweed swirling around my reproductive organs.

The fact that I didn't have a husband had been thrown by the wayside now. These women were desperate.

And then, as I knew it would, my master plan continued to work. I got married and became pregnant. I could almost hear the celebrations taking place in Sicily. Bunting would be hung and a carnival atmosphere would pervade the village square.

"She's not barren" they would cheer. "Mamma mia".

However, I held an even better trump card up my jumper. My son.

Over in Sicily, on the night of his birth, my father's family behaved as if Italy had won the World Cup. "Karen," said my dad, his voice thick with emotion, "it was just like 1982. We were all pipping our car horns along the main square." We're taking our son over there next year. I believe they have the sedan chair at the ready.