So I had a long conversation with the new guinea pigs, Chet and Nutmeg, last night. It went like this:

Here's the skinny, guineas, I'm gonna tell ya three things - listen carefully, learn well, and we'll get along just fine:

1. The Youngsters aren't going to wait forever for you to come out of your hiding spots and become the cuddly creatures that we promised them you would be. So get over yourselves. The coy thing is getting a bit old.

2. I promise to feed, clean, and cuddle you critters but in return I expect happy noises and "popcorning". I want entertainment, damn it!

3. I hope you are adventurous little piggies for in your future is a trip is to the Yorkshire Dales. Sitting in the pockets of my Barbour Wax Jacket you can enjoy the countryside, protected from the birds of prey that circle above. Perhaps you can even wear mini Barbour Wax Jackets of you own - how cute - rugged, yet dapper.

Basically, piggies, your cute faces and adorable furry bodies will only get you so far. It's time to start acting like you like us.

Chet and Nutmeg listened quietly during my entire speech, nodding with interest at the first two points, and tilting their heads quizzically at the third. When I was done I stuck a finger through the cage bars and said "Deal?". There was a slight lifting of each of their paws. I took that as "shaking on it".

Not yet used to guinea pig noises and their meanings I heard what sounded like a chuckle as I walked away. Perhaps it was the happy noise I had asked for in point two. Yes, that's it. They really listened to what I had to say. What obedient little furballs!

But as I walked up the stairs I heard it again and couldn't help but shake the feeling that perhaps I was being mocked...

Yesterday, The Big Youngster was on a riddle kick. It was one riddle after another for hours on end ... and he got me every single time. At the dinner table that evening, in an attempt to stump him, I smarmily challenged him with the following riddle:

A man and his son are in a car accident. The father dies on the scene, but the child is rushed to the hospital. When he arrives the surgeon says, "I can't operate on this boy, he is my son!" How can this be?

The Big Youngster looked at me like I was a complete idiot. Half-laughing and using the most condescending tone he answered, "The surgeon is the boy's mother." Then, to add insult to injury, he held his hands out and looked around the table as if to say "What the-?"

I was amazed. Not at how The Big Youngster had scoffed at my riddle, but how he had answered it without hesitation ... of course the surgeon was the boy's mother ... who else? You see, perhaps I am dating myself by saying this, but back in my day the thought that a woman would be the surgeon would not have entered the minds of most. I remember this riddle being quite a perplexing one.

Oh how times have changed! I was so happy that my son had shown no signs of male chauvinist piggyness, I overlooked how haughtily he had dismissed my riddle.

It was only when I noticed that my Coronation Street backlog was up to 28 episodes that I realized just how needy The Youngsters have been these days ... what with the tween dramas of the Big Youngster, the strep throat affliction of the Middle Youngster, and the constant attention-getting antics of Goo, the Littlest Youngster.

Still, they're good for something. Goo told me the other day, in a very loud voice, while in a very quiet library, that I was chubby. That was fun.

But I do have a word of caution for all of you childless Coronation Street fans out there. If you're toying with the idea of having kids of your own, you may want to have a little rethink. Might I suggest you do the following:

1. Get yourself a can of beer, pour it in a glass and pretend it is a pint of Newton and Ridley.
2. Get yourself a copy of the very special Corrie episode when Mike Baldwin dies.
3. Send your significant other to another room.
4. Get comfortable and start watching.
5. Try not to cry when Mike is dying in rival Ken Barlow's arms.
6. Just as Mike is uttering his last words "You're finished Barlow, Deirdre loves me, she's mine" have your significant other call from the other room, in an eardrum piercing whine, "Mooooommmmy, I've pooped myself again!"

If you still decide to have youngsters after this, you have both my sincerest admiration and my heartfelt condolences ... but, most of all, because you have the gall to call yourself a Corrie fan, you have my utmost repugnance.