Some late breaking news (and I don't mean the casting of the new Doctor Who) has resulted in this week's column being on a somewhat unexpected subject. Sadly this means I won't be able to recount the tale of woe involving my poor car, which on the way to work on Tuesday developed what can only be described as a kangaroo complex of the most intense variety. The upshot of this of course was that I've had to walk to work this past few days, which although not in itself a particular hardship did unfortunately coincide with the return of the Monsoon season to Devon (or at least to the three square miles of it that comprise my home, my work, and the long roady bit in-between).

It also means that I can't pluck at your heartstrings by telling you about our honourable number three cat (or is it number two?) who came in on Wednesday morning with a huge gash in her side - one quick dash to the vets (and one large bill from the vets) later, and the poor thing is now meandering around the house like a depressed lampshade, having been supplied one of those unintentionally funny-looking collars to stop her picking at the wound (and it's a big one - a big square shaved patch with an oozy red hole in the middle. Yeuch!). My wife believes it to have been the handiwork (pawiwork?) of a regular stray cat who is labouring under the misapprehension that he is quite welcome to come into our kitchen for a spray and a fight whenever the fancy takes him. Personally I think it's down to our downright dishonourable, definitely number five cat, who has been due for the, erm, for the c-h-o-p (I have to spell it out, in case he reads this) since January. Although our local vets are happy to put most things on account (well, happy-ish at any rate) the one thing they insist on being paid for straightaway is animals being 'done' - so with that in mind can it be mere coincidence that every time we've decided to book the perky, and still-equipped, little darling in for the final indignity, one of our other cats suddenly develops an urgent ailment that takes priority. My theory is that the kitten is nobbling the other cats. In the past few months we've had hotspots, diarrhoea, urinary infections, abcesses, and now this latest savage wound, as if our cats were involved in some sort of feline remake of "Tenko" and the result is that our little kitten is still managing to hold on to that which he holds most dear.

But no, with tonight's unexpected development, there is no time (and indeed, fellow Who fans, no space either) to tell of cars and cats. I can't even spare precious column inches to give you a passing update on my previous column on Beings Animalculus, and inform you that we lost a second rat recently. My Mum took the loss very bravely (I believe her exact words were, "Only one left to go then") as did I, and my daughter was a lot more stoic this time around. The funeral, by the way, was a very private affair, so private in fact that not even I was invited, and the little dear was firmly interred in the front garden before I got home from work. Whether my wife or daughter said a few words, or whether any hymns or readings were sung or read I cannot say. Incidentally, my Dad asked, as I presume a knee-jerk reaction borne of many years officiating at such events (albeit for humans) whether it had been a burial or a cremation!

And on the subject of rodents, although I believe that the world is now ready for it, I am unable even to spare the room to tell you the tale of the Giant Rat of Sumatra. Another time perhaps...

For tonight at Curnow Towers we have heard the patter of tiny feet.

In case any of my relatives have stumbled upon this column, let me very quickly (before the fainting and the swooning, and the knitting of matinee jackets, sets in) clarify that we are not talking human feet here, or indeed feet at all. To correct myself, I think perhaps 'paws' would have been a more accurate word (although as regards the word 'tiny' I think my language is beyond reproach). Our gerbils have had baby gerbils. There is probably a correct term, just as a baby cat is called a kitten, and a baby dog is a puppy, so there must surely be a word meaning 'baby gerbil'; however, lacking the knowledge to produce the word, or the enthusiasm to look it up, we will for the moment stick with 'baby gerbils'.

A couple of months ago my wife and daughter (I leave it up to you, dear reader, to determine which was more likely to be the ringleader in this sordid tale) hatched a plan to have some baby gerbils. We had, at that time, a male gerbil (we will call him Fred, to preserve his anonymity) and the first indication to me that there was trouble ahead was when I started to hear wistful comments from Mrs & Miss Curnow that, "He looks so lonely" and "If only he had a friend" and the like.

After a week or so of this, they decided to abandon the pussy-footing (gerbil-footing?) around and just came straight out with it, having by this time come to the conclusion that, as ever, I was unlikely to respond to subtle hints (on the grounds that since they are easy to ignore, I tend to ignore them). The 'it' that they came straight out with in this instance was a proposal to get a female gerbil, and hence produce some baby gerbils. I responded with the perfectly reasonable point that we could hardly provide house space to a whole horde (tribe? plague?!) of gerbils, but unfortunately they in turn responded with the annoyingly reasonable point that the local Pet Shop had said they would be happy to take them. Curses, foiled again, etc, etc.

My wife tried to sell the idea yet further by suggesting that it would be a good exercise in showing our daughter the life-cycle of animals, and also that it would help her learn how to (when it comes to it) give up animals - ie, you can't keep them all. A perfectly reasonable argument in principal, although to be honest the real reason is simply that both Mrs & Miss C think gerbils are just so darned cute.

And so, confronted with such a well-thought out proposal, what else could a supportive father and husband do except agree? In fact, I believe my exact words, magnanimously expressed I'm sure you'll agree, were, "I think you're both mad, but if you want to do it, and if you two pay for it all yourselves, then fine!"

OK, to be honest I did let them have the £2.50 for the female gerbil (again, to protect her anonymity, we'll call her Ginger). And, OK, I did stump up £8.50 for another cage for when the babies need to be separated into boys and girls. But other than that I stuck firmly to my guns, and left them to get on with it. And by that I mean I left Mrs & Miss C to get on with obtaining the gerbil, and then left Fred and Ginger to get on with, er, putting on the Ritz.

Well, anyway, the Ritz has evidently been well and truly put on because tonight, to the accompaniment of a little bit of subdued squeaking, the baby gerbils appear to have arrived. I did mention to my wife that, give the lady gerbil her due, she made a lot less noise and fuss than my wife did when she was having our daughter - and she only had the one. As far as we can tell Ginger has produced four little starlets this evening! I say, 'as far as we can tell', because according to David Attenborough (by which of course I mean Mrs Curnow) any sudden movements or shocks such as, for example, shoving your hand into the cage to have a good old rummage and a count up, would so startle the parent gerbils that they would eat their young. Apparently they do this as a response to danger, to prevent a predator eating them instead - this, incidentally, is a fact I shall be dredging up as a rebuttal any time anybody says, "Isn't nature wonderful?" within my earshot.

And that, for now, is it. I haven't seen Fred strutting around handing out cigars, but it looks like everything has gone well. My daughter, of course, was asleep long before the contractions started (she always misses out on the good stuff) so she will only learn the joyful tidings in the morning. What she will make of them is anybody's guess, but I expect there will be a lot of grinning and "Aww"-ing going on over the next day or so. I feel I've done my bit by assisting in the spondooliks department, so I am adamant that I'm not getting up in the middle of the night to heat up bottles of milk, or change tiny soiled nappies. (Mind you, I think I may have said that once before...)

And in closing, if anybody out there should be looking to give a good home to a baby gerbil... Just let me know.

20th March 2004