I CAN'T wait until I have kids.
Not because of an overwhelming paternal instinct or some primal instinct to continue my genetic line.
No, I'm looking forward to producing a few of the little tackers to get some payback.
You see, I'm a bit of a naughty kid magnet.
On an almost abandoned plane, you can guarantee the one chair-kicking, tray- slamming sproglet will be sitting behind me.
Or in front: one eight-hour flight was spent constantly removing the sticky fingers belonging to the kid leaning over his seat and playing with my screen. That was when he wasn't screaming blue murder.
On a recent flight, there was another little darling gleefully booting the back of my seat like she was trying out for the punter's position in the NFL.
I put up with it for most of the flight because I like to think I'm pretty tolerant and kids must get bored stiff on planes.
But about an hour in, the high-altitude attacks got too much. I turned and apologised to the mother and asked if she might ask her child to, you know, not try and kick my spine through my brain. I was very polite and non-accusatory.
It fell on deaf ears. Or should I say fell on earphoned ears, as the woman was playing a video game on an iPad with headphones on.
No wonder the kid was bored; she had had her only source of entertainment pinched. If you're not going to put up with your child, why should everyone else have to?
Increasingly I worry I'm turning into a grumpy old man prematurely.
It's the reason I hardly go to the cinema anymore. I can't stand people talking or mobile phones ringing (and being answered) in the theatre.
I fear I'm a few more years away from a diatribe lamenting modern pop music.
Actually after learning what twerking is (I only just worked out what a Harlem shake was) I'm probably already there.
Now before you decry me as a child misanthrope, I actually quite like kids.
And I appreciate how hard it must be for parents to fly, eat out or do any number of child-unfriendly exercises.
Long-haul flights (or boring restaurants) must be agony for kids and painful if they're really little and can't control the pressure in their ears.
I'm normally the one offering a conciliatory smile while your offspring throws a tantrum.
But if their legs are long enough to do a Highland jig on the seat in front of them, then they're old enough to behave for 80minutes.
So when I finally reproduce, I'm going to track down the parent of every restaurant- screaming, chair-kicking, tray-slamming child and unleash a torrent of misbehaviour.
Then I'll plug in the headphones, sit back and ignore the show.