JENNI MURRAY: When I hear about women having babies in their 50s, I think, poor you and poor them.

Many congratulations to Victoria Coren Mitchell and her husband David, who appear full of joy as they announce the birth of their second child, June Violet, sister of eight-year-old Barbara.

The birth made the news, not only because they are both on television, but because Victoria is a mother again at 51 – well above the average age of 29 to 30.

You could say there’s nothing unusual about that these days. While just 55 babies were born to women aged 50 or over in England and Wales in 2001, that figure has risen in the 20 years since.

In England, an average of 275 women over the age of 50 gave birth between 2018 and 2021, seven of whom were in their 60s.

And there are plenty of high-profile examples: singer Janet Jackson had her first child at the age of 50 and actress Rachel Weisz at the age of 48.

I sympathize with women who put off the time-consuming hard work of raising children to climb the career ladder. I went through those nerve-wracking nightmares of wondering how I would ever manage my job and childcare.

I didn’t have to worry. I was 33 when I told my mother I was pregnant. Her response? “Good grief, not before.”

I was sure I had found the right man; my biological clock was ticking so loudly it was deafening, so I had just kept going, excited but scared.

These were the days when breastfeeding in public was considered obscenity and pregnant bellies were expected to remain hidden.

At the time I was presenting the BBC’s South Today. I had countless cards and letters telling me I looked disgusting, asking why I didn’t have a man to keep me, and berating me for even having a job when it should have been given to a man.

Furthermore, my paperwork at the NHS maternity unit described me as ‘risky, a geriatric mother’.

Geriatric indeed, at the age of 33! Then a second time at the age of 37.

I don’t regret choosing to have my children when I was young and fit enough to enjoy them and for them to enjoy me.

When I hear about women having babies in their 50s and 60s, I can’t help thinking, “Poor you and poor her.”

Oh, the sleepless nights. The terrible twos and the embarrassing tantrums in the supermarket. The struggle to find the energy to be a parental taxi driver or to stand on an icy sideline while your son or daughter plays sports.

There’s another benefit to having them younger, which I’ve learned to appreciate lately. My sons, now 40 and 36, are mature enough to help me at a time when the roles are sometimes reversed.

I don’t want you to think that I spent a month wandering around the south of France. I was actually bothered by that phrase I’ve always hated: “I fell.”

I tried to deny that the aching pain would soon disappear. I was wrong. At the Royal Free Hospital, a chest x-ray revealed that I had a severely broken vertebra in my spine.

An operation, which I was afraid of, was ruled out. The cause of the fracture was the common bone-thinning disease in older women: osteoporosis. The bone would be too weak to benefit from surgery. I would just have to wait and hope the vertebra would heal itself.

And this is where my wonderful, wise, knowledgeable, adult sons came into their own. They were there, by my side, bringing the love and comfort I so desperately needed.

I had to undergo several painful scans. Lying on my back on the hard surface of the MRI machine was more painful than I thought. Several times I screamed in pain and begged to be let out of the machine.

The boys – I know I’m not allowed to call them that, but they’re still boys to me – were prepared. They had made sure there was no metal anywhere on their bodies and insisted on coming into the room with me.

As I cried, they caressed my forehead and spoke calmly and encouragingly that these scans were needed to give the doctors a good idea of ​​what was going on in my spine.

I know, if it wasn’t for them being there, patient, knowledgeable and wanting me to be okay, I would have given up and walked away.

Ed, my eldest son, is a vet and has medical knowledge, as does his wife Liz, a senior consultant in the NHS. Without their support and advice, I would not have known how to talk to the doctors who came to see me.

They told me what to ask about my bone health – or lack thereof – and what future plans would be in place.

Ed then sent me a long list of questions to ask the doctor later. I got good answers for the next phase of managing the pain and treating osteoporosis. She laughed when I finished and asked me which medical professional was on the list.

Charlie has now taken over my old role as taxi driver. It will be a while before I can drive again, but he is there to help and calm me when worries about my future overpower my usual common sense.

I’m home now, on painkillers and grateful that they bullied me into installing a toilet downstairs; an upright, comfortable chair instead of my sloppy old couch and a new bathroom with a beautiful shower.

I hope Victoria’s daughters will be just as supportive as she reaches her 70s. They will be in their early twenties.

But the young men, whom I gave birth to in time so that they could be useful when I grew old, have a great asset behind them. I couldn’t be more grateful.

Why my father hid the fact that he was Jewish

There is nothing to be cheerful about in the London area where I live. It is a predominantly Jewish part of the capital and I am shocked by the stories friends tell of the fear they suffer as a result of what is happening around them.

Jewish schools are closed, children are told not to wear uniforms that mark them as Jewish, posters of missing hostages are torn.

In this city that prides itself on diversity, anti-Semitism is now worse than at any time since World War II. Don’t people know they are racist?

I can feel the fear that drove my father to hide his identity. I only discovered my grandmother’s history when we visited Auschwitz together. I was 14 years old. It was 1964.

Just leave the Venus alone!

What is it about Diego Velazquez’s Rokeby Venus, depicted, that makes people want to destroy her?

First a suffragette named Mary Richardson cut her in 1914. Now the Just Stop Oil gang has attacked her by smashing the glass that protected her.

What an unoriginal protest. Just leave her alone.

Ellie and Vito get my vote

I was very relieved when Angela Rippon survived the Strictly dance-off last week. But Ellie and Vito were a revelation.

Ellie did a bit of tap dancing and ballet as a child, but had no style training. She is what Strictly should be – from almost management to the Ginger Rogers to Vito’s tall and elegant Fred Astaire.

Sorry Angela, but my money now goes to them winning.