ON THE way to pick me up from school, my mother tried to make my little sister understand.

“So we’re not going to tell Helen, are we?”

“No.”

“What are we not going to tell her?”

“We’re not going to tell her that we’ve got guinea pigs.” “Very good. It’s a surprise.”

Unfortunately for my mum, those carefully taught instructions were left at the front gates.

As soon as my three-year-old sister saw me coming out of my year two class she shouted across the playground. “Helen! You’ll never guess what. We’ve got guinea pigs,” she said.

And so my entry into the world of domestic pets began.

We had Ginger, who was a little bit fat, and Caramel, who was so scared of the outside world that a faint breeze made her audibly shake. Our sandy-coloured guinea pigs savaged mum’s rhubarb even more than the slugs did.

They chased birds off the lawn. They scampered under the tree and refused to come out. They were brilliant.

After them, I went through a horsey phase, and then I decided that perhaps it was easier to enjoy other people’s pets, rather than get my own.

My friend Max, for example, had a parrot which provided hours of amusement. His friends taught it how to swear.

Its language was filthier than the stereotypical sailor’s.

Whenever Max’s parents came round he had to lock it in the back bedroom for fear of frightening them. You could still hear its muffled cursing from behind the door.

Another friend had a ginger cat, which they named Satan, much to the distress of the whole neighbourhood.

Families on the street had to endure them calling for the cat whenever he refused to come in at the end of the night. “Come on Satan, get inside!”

I don’t think anyone loves pets quite like the English. I was reminded of that this week, while interviewing a woman who has started a luxury pet boutique.

We name them, we train them, we buy them little waistcoats.  Poor things!