TIME WAS when acquiring a pet goldfish necessitated a trip to the fair, some carefully-aimed darts and the unwilling parental cash injection for a small glass bowl.

These days, things are rather more scientific as I discovered when I called a specialist shop to enquire about an inexpensive freshwater creature to entertain' our grandchildren.

"You'll have to bring a specimen of your water," said the polite lady on the other end of the phone.

This confused me, although I may have misheard the instruction.

Why would I need to take a urine sample? I was buying a ruddy goldfish, not training to be an astronaut.

"No, a sample of your tap water," she explained, adding that their fish only went to the best homes.

A pang of guilt reminded me of the only time I had ever owned a goldfish, an acquisition during a childhood trip to the aforementioned fair.

Having won the fish early on in the evening, I was too young and far too thick to ask the man to look after it so I could collect it later. Besides, how would he know which was mine?

So I took it around with me. It went on the Waltzers, the Speedway, the Ghost Train and the Waltzers again. (Well, I figured that with a three-second memory retention, it wouldn't notice the repetition).

Of course, you expect me to say that the fish didn't survive its adventure. Not a bit of it.

When it was eventually transferred to its bowl, it swam around happily - and continuously for some reason - for two days before regaining its equilibrium and remembering it hadn't eaten for 48 hours.

It lasted another four years and I like to think life never got more exciting for him than our first night together.

After taking almost 30 minutes to select the two goldfish that would adorn our new bowl - believe me, life's just too short to allow two small children the freedom to select their own fish from a tank full of the blessed things - we returned with a plant, some food and the two new arrivals in a long plastic bag.

My wife had thoughtfully acquired a fish bowl, a receptacle so large it completely dominated the kitchen and we had to squeeze in through the doors to get past it.

At first, I thought she'd bought one of Jacques Cousteau's old submersibles, but it appears that in these days of elf and safety for marine life, this was the recommended size.

So Peter and Harry - don't ask but if I said Spiderman it would point you in the way of our grandson's thinking - are happy as Larry, especially as my wife appears to have regressed to being a fussy mum again, fretting over a limp fin or the psychological damage inflicted when they had a near-death experience being transferred in to the bowl.

Me? I just pull faces at them every time I pass, safe in the knowledge that they think they are only being insulted once a day.

They should be so lucky...