THE wailing began within minutes of us appearing in the pet shop. We were back to complete part two of our pet solution and things weren’t going according to plan.

What was supposed to be a genius and carefree solution to our lack-of-domestic-animal crisis was fast turning into the inevitable nightmare. Just remember, nothing is as easy at it looks, and there’s no such thing as a free lunch, let alone a clown fish.

But how hard could it be? If you can win a goldfish in a plastic bag at a fair, surely the odds are better for the home-schooled version?

Think again. Having already been sent home once, fishless, we were back, a week later, as requested with our tank up and running, the filter system, the chlorinator and some bacteria thingy all in place.

All we had to do now was pass the water filter test, choose our fish and we were home free.

But the man came back from his testing room shaking his head. “No, I’m sorry, your water’s not ready. It still needs to break down the algae,” he said with little regard for the fact that Armageddon was about to kick off in front of his very eyes.

I broke out into a sweat sensing the four small pairs of eyes which had immediately swivelled in my direction.

I put on my most beguiling smile, looked him firmly in the eye and in my most controlled voice said: “We have come a long way for this and obviously expectations are high. We can’t keep coming back time-and-time again and you did tell us we could have our fish today.”

“Well I’m sorry madam, but with a reading like this I can’t guarantee the fish would survive,” he replied.

“So what do you want me to do then?” I added, hysteria creeping into my voice, the kids sensing the change in dynamic, detecting that the battle was turning fast and we were now on the losing side.

We stood there like Wyatt Earp versus Billy Clanton at the O.K. Corral and stared into each other’s eyes, wondering who would pull the trigger first. And then he said the words that sunk the ship of hope right there and then without a trace: “Well I could sell them to you madam but they will probably die.”

I turned, smiled at the children and in my best Julie Andrews voice told them straight: “We can’t buy the fish today.” And then the wailing began and we stood there in a sorry huddle in the middle of the pet shop, cursing the day fish were ever invented.

“Give it another week,” the man then added, entirely unmoved by my plight. I might not live that long!