You’ve read Children of Men? No? You saw the movie? Oh, that’s terrible. You get nothing about the book from that. The movie is just Clive Owen wandering around saying “Oh, look at me, I have stubble and blow stuff up, I’m in a post-apocalyptic dystopia where women can’t have children!” How dumb is that? (Not that dumb, Clive Owen looks great).
However, the book is about a kindly former professor at Oxford who wanders around keeping a diary and writing ”I do not blow any stuff up so much as I pray nightly that aliens exist, so they can admire the Sistine chapel after man is extinct, because we live in a post-apocalytpic dystopia where women can’t bear children.” That’s not an exact quote. But one part of the book – which, seriously, largely just fascinating diary observations on a childless dystopia, I know you’ll like it, because books with plots suck - details how obsessed women have become with dolls now that they’ve all become infertile. Dolls become more and more prized with new “mothers” hosting little parties for them and paying excessive amounts for bizarre, super detailed, interesting and impressive ones.
What I’m saying is: if I lived in that world, these would be my babies.