I was recently under extreme tag team duress from a five and eight-year-old who are experts at the childhood version of water boarding. To clarify: they wanted a pet and, unlike the interrogation scene in Missing in Action, I am no Chuck Norris and knew it was a matter of time before I caved in and agreed to their demands.

Having allayed this request in recent years with numerous goldfish, the ante has now been upped with a penchant for dogs, cats, gerbils, hamsters and chickens. I have been working my way through the pester power list attempting to find excuses to get off lightly.

The dog idea is a non-starter. I do have a penchant for a poodle, in much the same way as grandparents have extreme fondness for their grandkids but, as in the semantics of that relationship, they are great unless you have to take full responsibility for them. With cleaning the goldfish bowl out once a week and sprinkling some food in daily proving a bridge too far for the bairns, I have explained that there is no way on god's earth I am getting up at 5am to take it for a walk and doing the same at the end of a hard day at the chalk face. The main reason is the recent responsible dog ownership initiative. I could not physically pick up its mess with one of those flimsy bags and then carry it home in my pocket. Knowing my luck, the bag would be from Poundland and be less than saleable quality, or I would inadvertently leave it in my jacket pocket in the staff room all day in 80-degree heat.

The even money was on a feline. We currently have a cat flap in the door so it seems a shame to waste the ready-made architecture. We also have three cat visitors, including the local estate ruffian, who I wouldn’t mess with. My worry is, through fear, my cat would become agoraphobic and not venture outdoors onto the mean streets of Hertfordshire.

Gerbils are out as they don’t do anything except make a racket spinning on that wheel contraption all night and chickens are discounted for no other reason than they are chickens.

This narrows the field of runners and riders down to guinea pigs and hamsters, neither of which, despite minimal supervision, do anything of note. I recently discussed the apathy these super rodents portray and my wife asked what I expected them to do. I guess I expect some kind of high five or star jump to make it stand out and not just be a dank smelling drain on resources.

So, in the end, I caved in and via a Saturday morning visit to Nottcuts for breakfast (unsuccessful as we arrived at 11.31am) we plumped for a psychotic hamster. It has taken four weeks, via the aid of stroking it with a pencil, to be able to handle it. It is, to be blunt, feral, and the only person intrepid enough to handle it is my eldest. All has gone well, she is proving to be a responsible pet owner although I am unsure if, as happened yesterday, she should be putting Gingerbread in her Playmobil caravan to drive the playmopeople around the kitchen. Still, it beats scooping dog waste into a flimsy carrier bag at 6am in the freezing cold so I am all for it.

  • Brett Ellis is a teacher who lives in London Colney