The only pet we ever bought was a great mistake, and perhaps it could be a warning to other soft-hearted or soft-headed (I often wonder which ) folks like me.

A neighbour and I decided to go to London for the day - both our husbands were willing to cope with our respective families, so off we went. For several hours we looked at the shops and bought a few things, and presently found ourselves outside the Battersea Dogs Home, where we were invited to look round, so we entered - that was the error. So many pairs of appealing eyes, so many plaintive whines, cage after cage of unwanted animals, many of them mongrels, some in pup.

"These in this pen will be put to sleep tomorrow if no-one wants them" said our guide. The words cut me like a knife in my heart - one was a cuddly Sealyham, his white coat matted and grey and his eyes so sad. I couldn't resist him - how could anyone 'lose' such a lovely animal? To cut a long story short, I paid £2, bought a collar and lead, and brought him home on the bus.

'Snowey' we called him after testing him with all the names we could think of, and though he seemed nervous, he enjoyed his bath and de-lousing, and within a few days he looked a picture. But he never did settle down. Snowey was too old to be taught a new way of life. We learned many things about him. He disliked men, especially any man wearing a hat, so he'd undoubtedly been used to a mistress only; a mistress who was probably a singer, for whenever I burst into song he would accompany me with long wails - though whether in protest or pleasure I didn't discover.

Also he was used to an upstairs flat. On coming downstairs he would run straight to the front door.

Finally he made it clear that he didn't like children either, by snapping at my 2.1/2 year old daughter Gay's face and drawing blood. He had to go, and friends of ours who were breeders of Sealyhams were glad to take him off our hands. If ever I'm in Battersea again I intend to close my eyes and walk straight past that heartbreaking Home.

Almost before the children had dried their tears we were adopted by a Jackdaw. He was a mighty handsome fellow, strong and sleek, and was quite content to sit on my shoulder for sixteen hours of every day. His large black beak felt uncomfortably close to my ear, but he showed no inclination to peck, and I soon gained confidence and carried him everywhere. The kids insisted on playing Treasure Island times without number during Jack's stay of six months, and a soiled jacket was a small price to pay for the pleasure of his company.

A series of cats followed the bird, not literally of course. One was a grey tabby female which produced kittens of all colours with monotonous regularity. She spent so much time in the sideboard cupboard that the children called it 'Pussy's House'.

One cold wintry day a car pulled up in a nearby road - a tiny black and white furry form was thrust out - the door slammed and the car driven away all in a matter of seconds. The kitten found it's way to my door and we named it 'Snooky'. Now, almost fifteen years later, he is still with us, a big, bouncy, healthy, lazy old cat. He has played and is still playing his part in bringing up the family, teaching little Miss Mischief to be kind and gentle by smacking out with a hefty paw when she plays too hard with him. We wouldn't lose 'Snooky' for all the tea in China, and it will be a sad day when he reaches the end of his road.

For several years we owned probably the only three-legged tortoise in the country. He had two normal companions and I must say that he found his disability no handicap - he ate just as many lettuce seedlings and young plants as did the other two. We painted our address on the back of his shell for when he got lost, and there was quite a stream of neighbour's kids bringing him back to our front door.

Rabbits and mice, goldfish, newts and lizards have all been members of this family at some time or another. Right now we're awaiting the warmer weather to know if our two hedgehogs have survived the severe winter. For years we've encouraged them to stay in our garden by feeding them nightly saucers of bread and milk, and they reward us by eating up as many garden pests as their fat tummies will hold. They are fairly tame now, and one evening last year when Paul opened the back door one of them ran into the house. He was promptly fed and then picked up to be admired. Horror of horrors - his prickles were infested with fleas, and no time was wasted in putting him back where he belonged. Next morning I was highly amused to find him curled up fast asleep against the bristly toilet brush in the outside loo - a fellow feeling, no doubt!

There is a proper pigsty in the garden built during the War when such things as "Dig for Victory" were encouraged. No doubt the former occupants of the house were able to feed pigs and fatten them for the home and local butcher under government arrangements. But when we took possession it had not been used for a few years, and quickly became one of the kids' hiding places, or 'gang huts'.

Paul got a job at a pig farm a few miles away in the countryside (incidentally, Tolworth House is right in the middle of the town - the boundary is at least two miles away) and one day came home with a piglet in his bicycle pack. It was only a few hours old and its mother had rolled on him and broken three of his legs. So I put splints on the broken limbs and we fed him with 'scraps' and real pig food which Paul brought home from the farm in his haversack every night. He grew and grew, the legs mended and he grew so affectionate that when I went to feed him one day he frightened the life out of me by getting hold of my leg with his mouth. Well, that was that. Paul got the Farmer to come and fetch him and he was so impressed with the way he had grown that he gave us several pounds for him. Little did he know that it was HIS pig food that had wrought the miracle!

Sometimes I think this house might just as well be an hotel, if not that, then Kings Cross Railway Station would be a fair comparison because the childrens' friends come and go as they please. To have my own family alone is the exception rather than the rule.

Gay's school friends often enjoy a weekend with us - to them Hilary Jane is a novelty, she can be a very 'fetching' child, and so for a day or two I'm happily relieved of all responsibilities.

The fashion for larger families amongst people in the Executive Income Bracket is rapidly growing and it's not entirely a matter of tax relief either. In theory, people with above average brains should produce children with above average brains, plus the odd genius, so it seems to me to be a very healthy change.

I'm also in favour of parents having a greater 'say' in the choice of their childrens' marriage partners. Perhaps this sounds Victorian, but it's not meant to, I assure you.

One European country engineered an experiment the object of which was to produce the 'perfect race' and I'd like to bet a pound to a hayseed that a high percentage of those selected couples are still living happily together producing healthy, well-made children who can have no fear of hereditary disease or mental instability because their parentage has been examined with a fine tooth-comb and passed 'A1'.

Here in this free Christian country, chance plays a big part in the marriage stakes, and I have to admit that luck and Ron's sense of humour several times forestalled my plans to pack a bag and go home to Mother during the early years of mutual adjustment.