Meet the thirtynothings

When my grandmother turned 30 in 1940 she had a husband, four children, a mortgage and she couldn't have imagined it any other way. Now I've turned 30 I have no husband and the thought of procreation brings me out in a very cold sweat.

But I am not alone - in fact I'm in glittering company, because a host of unmarried female celebs are also reaching the big three-oh. Winona Ryder is now 30, Geri Halliwell reached the same age last week, and Cameron Diaz reaches the dubious landmark at the end of the month. Not all these women are single but all are childless and remain resolutely unmarried, having poured the energies of their twenties into their careers.

The Bridget Jones phenomenon saw the last death spasm of the marriage ideal. This new generation of unmarried females has moved on.

Sure, we still drink too much Sauvignon, wear knee-high boots and want to stop smoking, but we've become strangely allergic to diamonds and platinum. As for the fear of ageing, we've developed too much of a reliance on the appliance of science to worry about it. (We've only to glance at girlish Kylie or porcelain faced Madonna - both indefatigable poster girls for the over thirties - to see what various syringes, CACI facials and oxygen-based beauty treatments can do for a lady.) Give me a couple of years and I'll be screaming, "Bring on the Botox!"

I'm not single and have been with my boyfriend for three years, but our idea of commitment is keeping Friday evenings free to watch Frasier together. Presumably now I'm 30 I should be mithering after a rock. But, for me, getting married would be nothing more than a cunning way to get my Dad to pay for a party during which I get drunk, look thin and wear a beautiful dress.

I look around and as my friends hit their third decade I see them quietly re-assessing their lives. Having achieved hugely in their twenties, they are now taking time out, changing jobs, going travelling and doing VSO. We aren't engaged in the frenzied pursuit of status and salary we saw during the 1980s, nor do we mutter pleadingly: "Please God, by 30 let me be pregnant with a ring on my finger." Our goalposts have now moved. Instead of finding a man, we want to find ourselves.

And why? Because none of us are remotely ready to breed. Indeed, the very idea of having children is alien - as surreal and untenable as joining the Nasa space programme. Right now I'm a 30-year-old woman who can't drive, never does the washing-up and spends her spare time guzzling Woolworth's pick-and-mix while playing computer games. Frankly, even getting a cat would be too much of a commitment. One day I'd like to bring up a child and teach him or her to be as happy as they can be. But I'll have to wait until I'm grown up first.

And such girlish selfperceptions are reflected in our attitudes to fashion. When I was 13 I shopped at Topshop; now I'm 30 I still shop at Topshop. My wardrobe is no polished teak affair containing a few capsule cashmere "pieces" but is rather a riot of cheap, colourful impulse buys - largely secondhand, many unwashed, with most lying on my bedroom floor.

But even though we dress (and sometimes behave) like teenagers, paradoxically we are the most self-aware we have ever been. We are conversant with all our emotional flaws, understand why we act the way we do, and therapy is no longer a dirty word. And it's precisely because we have this sliver of self-knowledge that we're reluctant to commit to either marriage or children. Just like Geri, who's partial to a bit of therapy, we're all on a voyage of self-discovery. As my friend Nina, a 31-year-old GP, says: "How can I have a real child if I'm still learning to love my inner one?"

So, emotionally and cerebrally we're in a great place. But what about our bodies? My first thirtysomething hangover triggered a biological epiphany. Suddenly I did the maths and realised I'd been drinking like a student for the past 12 years. I listened to my beleaguered liver, gave up drinking, cut down on the fags, and a month later was on a seven-day juice fast. I realised my fast-withering ovaries won't hold out for ever and that somewhere a clock is faintly ticking.

Then fortunately I remembered adoption, frozen ovums and sperm banks, heaved a sigh of relief and poured myself a celebratory glass of Cava. Time to squeeze in another round of Tomb Raider before yoga perhaps?