Tracey Emin: My Life in a Column

New Year's Eve could have been worse. One day earlier I was hospital, in complete agony

Only 24 hours earlier I had found myself at the Wellington Hospital, after two nights of complete agony. Possibly a rumbling appendix. Joe, who lives in my cottage (never has an address been so apt) accompanied me. I sat on the edge of the bed cracking jokes. But it felt like someone had just stuck a ballpoint pen into my side. In fact, they had stuck it in two days before, and now they were just wheedling it around in circles.

The physician came in. He was very pleasant and congenial and asked if it was OK for Joe to stay in the room while he examined me. Then entered the man with the portable scan machine. I pulled my skirt down. (I was wearing the most fantastic clothes to be medically examined in! A YSL wool pleated skirt with a soft waistband, that could be tugged just below my belly. And a black cashmere jumper that rose nicely to just below my bust.)

The physician kneaded my belly with his hands and, after prodding around for a few moments, looked me directly in the eyes and said: "Do you think you could be pregnant?" At that, Joe, the scan man, and the physician all took a deep breath and awaited my reply. "No," I said, "Of course not." At that, all three of them knitted their eyebrows. "Are you sure?"

I said: "Yeah, of course I'm sure." The physician then asked: "When was the last time you had sexual intercourse?" I wanted to say, "I'm not telling you," but I spilt the beans. "August the 18th, 6 in the morning, and I'm not saying what year."

Joe looked at me as if to say: "You have been getting quite drunk lately." I said: "Look, put in this way, if I am, we have two phone calls to make right now. One to New Scientist and the second to the Catholic Church!" When the scan came up on the screen it looked like a graveyard. The redundancy of life. Joe sighed disappointedly.

Last time I had had a scan, it was an internal vaginal scan. A kind of probey thing, with a little camera on the end, to check out my fertility stakes. They said I had the womb and components of a 16 year old. Fit. I even waved at my eggs. I'm one of those rare women who drops two a month.

Twins run in our family. I actually considered having my eggs frozen, on the grounds that maybe I'll fall in love again. But I couldn't bear the guilt if I didn't. My little eggs having to be destroyed after five years. Just the thought of them being frozen, living in some twilight world. I really believe in the soul. And in my heart I feel that that comes from somewhere else. But in my sentimental way I even think sperm have feelings. Dear little things. Sperm should fly, but if it can be helped, never to the floor! And to all those people who keep saying to me: "Why don't you have a baby with one of your gay mates?" I say: "Because, like my gay mates, I'm not a breeder. I don't have a breeder mentality. I believe in making love! I've been shagging since I was 13. If I wanted to have a baby, it wouldn't have been that difficult."

It's quite vile for any woman to look at a man with her shopping mentality. "Oooh, he's tall, he's handsome, he's got style. I'll have a drop of that!" It's always love that's important. That's why I've come to the astounding conclusion that I will probably never have children. I have put the "probably" in to let myself off the hook, because we never know what's around the corner. But one thing is for sure, families just aren't sexy. Dad on his own with a baby = sexy. Mum on her own with a baby = sexy. Happy family = sweet. It all changes. I think the only time I really desire such change is when I'm really making love. And how often does that happen? Eh! Eh? Eh! I practise what I preach.

So I charge into 2006 being singledly mobile. Embracing the year of the dog with all my heart. It's supposed to be a really good year on the passion front. But so far the only date I have lined up is a trip to the Tower of London! £4,500 but still no one gets to see my crown jewels! No seriously, what a fantastic bid! (For a great cause!) And thank you to all these men who keep writing to me and inviting me out. Especially Mr. Twenty-four-year-old Handsome From Manchester. Yes, I'm sure you'd know how to make an old lady happy. But you see I'm not looking for a date. I'm not looking for anything.

I'm waiting to be found.