I think I have finally solved a problem that has perplexed the greatest minds of this planet for a long time. One that should see me being awarded a Nobel Prize in a few years.

This is because I have finally figured out how to stop unwanted pregnancies and lower the birth rate.

The answer to this previously intractable problem turns out to be incredibly simple - just send anyone who might be thinking about having children over to my house for a week or two.

I don't really know what it is about my three children, but they seem to have some sort of a magical prophylactic effect on childless visitors.

Not only do these visitors seem downright pleased to finally leave the chaotic maelstrom I call home, but they invariably do so with a dazed look in their eyes while asking for directions to the nearest monastery.

The latest victim of this syndrome was my sister-in-law.

Talk about the look of a doe trapped in the glare of headlights. She was only here for less than two weeks.

Unfortunately for her, this was more than enough time for my three little beasts to knock her immune system out of kilter, give her a bad cold, and show her why children, painting and good clothes only belong together in the same sentence.

And it's not like she really experienced the full parental spectrum because she didn't even have to wake the children up or get them breakfast.

Definitely not two of life's little pleasures.

It's not that I have a problem waking them up. It's really quite a simple process.

All I have to do is to turn into a brutal fascist pig and angrily rip the covers off their bed while screaming at them. I don't even have a problem making their breakfast.

It's just that I never thought I'd also have to take on the role of a downtrodden waitress - 'Let's see... that's one bowl of frosties with sultana raisins and milk, one lightly-toasted bagel with jam, and one I'm not going to eat anything you mean, horrid daddy. Now is that last order to go, or shall I shove it back down your ungrateful little throat?'

I even asked my sister-in-law if she could look after them one day. And it wasn't even a full day, just a mere six hours. Honest. She only said that it seemed as if it were a lot longer... far longer.

Of course, I know that feeling very well.

All I can say is that it sure was nice to be the cavalry for a change, rather than the one desperately waiting for reinforcements while the savages regroup for another charge.

At least this humbling experience made her realise that there really are worse things than being 32 years old and living on your own.

Things such as being 42 years old and taking care of three mutinous kids while your wife circles the globe meeting really interesting people.

Okay... so the last part is a slight exaggeration, but then I have a right to feel jealous because my wife is in Spain as I write this.

I probably also have a right to be a little bit sceptical about that line she spun about going to an academic conference. Especially when I discovered that she's staying at the suspiciously-named Hotel California.

And while she's 'living it up at the Hotel California,' I'm stuck at home desperately trying to let the Nobel Prize committee know that I've actually discovered the secret to controlling overpopulation - and their names are Tara, Shaman and Freya.

Now if I could only find a bottle that was big enough for all three of them...