It was just before 9am and by anyone's standards it was an odd, yet slightly comical, experience.

Driving to the Bristol Royal Infirmary's fertility clinic with a sample pot wedged under my arm to keep it warm was not what I had envisaged when my wife and I contemplated starting a family.

Nor, incidentally, was travelling from Leeds to a cheap hotel room in Newbury to meet her on various successive nights for a gallant attempt at conception.

What made matters worse was that those journeys only began after I'd filed a report for that evening's News at Ten, so by the time I'd arrived in Berkshire long after midnight, it was not really a time for candles and poetry.

But for every amusing memory there is a heartbreaking one too, bringing with it deep, painful feelings that, unless you've been there, are very difficult to understand.

Every time a friend announces they're pregnant, every time you hear a little one call "mummy", every time nature tells you that it's definitely not happening this time – I could go on, there are just so many gut-wrenching moments and believe you me, they are gut-wrenching.

Not only that, if you're not careful, the whole experience can send you to the edge of madness and will certainly stretch even the strongest partnership to the limit.

After two years and countless invasive investigations, we were told the only way we were going to experience the joy of bringing our own flesh and blood into the world was through IVF.

It wasn't a difficult decision to go for it and we were realistic enough to know that our chances of success were not that good and, potentially, further heartbreak lay ahead.

What happened next was one of those inexplicable yet life-changing moments – just three days before our first IVF consultation, my disbelieving wife found out she was pregnant.

It's because of that experience that now, as a father of two wonderful kids, my blood really boils when I read the likes of Bel Mooney casually declare that people like me have no divine rights and should actually just accept childlessness as our fate.

In the end we didn't need scientific help but I know a few couples who have done and are now loving parents to some beautiful children.

Children who are enjoying a secure and, yes, comfortable upbringing.

But Bel, surely that is better than the case of 36-year-old Luton mum Theresa Winters who has no problem with conceiving at all?

In fact, she's so fertile she is now pregnant for the 14th time – oh, and I should mention that all her 13 children have had to be taken into care due to neglect.

Surely a much-desired and longed for child is always going to be better off than one that's just pushed out simply because their mother is biologically prolific?

UNLESS I'm very tired or have had a few too many units, I'm not usually one for repeating myself, but today I'm going to make an exception.

Just a couple of weeks ago with three Ashes Tests to go and Kevin Pietersen injured, I urged the England selectors to get down on their knees and beg Marcus Trescothick to agree to a short-term comeback.

Needless to say, they didn't, and just look at what happened at Headingley – it has been nothing short of an embarrassing shambles.

Well I still think they should try and persuade him for the final test at the Oval; if they don't, I fear that little urn will be wending its way back Down Under.