Don Donovan: The GE rabbit was pulled out of the hat years ago

Corn? Forget it. Moratoriums? Don't waste our time. When it comes to market-oriented genetic modification, my father-in-law pulled that rabbit out of the hat half a century ago.

He had one of the most inventive minds imaginable. He could have run rings around Edison, Rutherford or Marconi. More to the point, he stumbled across DNA and the double helix when Crick and Watson were still in nappies.

Endowed with what could only be described as supernatural instinct he dreamed up marvellous genetic modifications to humans, and I should think that since his death he's probably been heading up the celestial committee responsible for evolution.

I was first exposed to his ingenuity when he successfully engineered (by growing one out of a mouse's back) a fold-away third arm for humans. Expected to evolve fully over about three generations, its main function would be to supplement the other two arms on those all-too-common occasions when one is carrying a plate of GM corn crackers and basil pesto dip in one hand, and a bottle of Marlborough's finest in the other, and needs to open the lounge door, which has a knob instead of one of those lever handles you can work with your nose, knee or bottom.

Another time we were watching coverage of Olympic Games swimming events on our black-and-white, 12-inch telly when he turned to me and said, "Have I ever told you about my aquatic nose?"

"You mean 'aquiline' surely?"

"No, I mean my gene-spliced adaptation for face-down swimmers."

It was brilliant. A pop-up nose about the same size as the normal hooter but growing between the shoulder blades, the nostrils pointing towards the heels. It allowed freestylers, breaststrokers and dog paddlers to swim in comfort without needing to turn the head to breathe.

It was also retractable, just in case some old friend might come up to you in the street, slap you on the back in greeting, and give you a bloody nose.

As I got to know father-in-law better he confided in me even more of his mods.

There were zippers for abdomens through which hysterectomies, gall bladders, peptic and duodenal ulcers and swallowed marbles could be accessed without drama. There was a neat adaptation to the ankles to give you an extra 60cm of height for looking over walls.

And, apart from his genetic work, he had patented drawings for a kit of auxiliary ears which you could snap on, discreetly, in a trice. There were large, cone-shaped ones for pulling in sound in the cheap seats at concerts, ones with right-angled, shelf-like bits on the top for stopping oversize hats from slipping over your eyes, plastic ears for mountain climbers so that they wouldn't suffer frostbite, and a quite ingenious pair especially designed for politicians with which you could hear both what was being said behind your back as well as before your face.

There seemed no limit to his genius for which, being the saintly man he was, he generally required no reward in this world.

But there was one occasion when he made a vast fortune from his body mods. It happened this way ...

I had been trying to wire up an electrical plug without using a screwdriver and I'd made rather a mess of my thumb nail. Father-in-law, who had been watching my efforts with an expression of amused contempt, suddenly whistled in that low, long, drawn out way he had when an idea was fruiting.

"Of course," he hissed.

For the next few days we saw little of him. He was shut away in his private gene-poolside lab, sustained only by corned beef and hummus sammies and copious cups of the Earl Blue blend he'd developed.

When he finally rejoined the world he had plans for what could have been the most intricate gene-splicing ever conceived.

It was so elegant. Each finger of each human hand would have, at its tip, its own special outgrowth. There were, in turn: a can opener, scissors, wire stripper, keyhole saw, reamer, magnifying glass, sharp blade, and screwdrivers - plain and Phillips head.

The most exquisite idea of all was reserved for the tip of the right index finger: an eye - yes, an eye - with a little light inside it with which you could look into dark, confined cupboards to find light switches and cards of fuse wire.

Sadly for all personkind his fortune was made not from implementing this idea, but from suppressing it.

His normally high principles were swamped by an offer he received from a Swiss manufacturer of pocket knives who somehow got wind of what he was up to.

They, realising that their excellent product could become obsolete in a couple of generations, paid off father-in-law, having threatened to break both his legs if he didn't take the money.

Being an honourable - though fearful - man, he took his secret with him to the grave. But I've often wondered whether, in that great GM works above the sky, he might have divulged it to his heavenly colleagues.

I confess that I am increasingly compelled to examine the fingers of newborn babes and should not be surprised to find, one of these days, a rudimentary screwdriver, a vestigial magnifying glass or, dare I say it, an eye at the tip of some newborn finger.

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