Hamsters Have Remarkable Potential : A Case Study (2)

Life is tiring, time is escaping me, I've cricked my neck and I can't even pop down to the complex's jacuzzi because some twit has urinated in it. So today I'm going to re-post what is probably the most "lock him up under the Mental Health Act" thing I have ever written. The C.B. Jones mentioned is the one and the same from Mindful Drivel. I warn you, it is quite a long post, long enough to even cause Mr London Street to perspire. It is also crazy. But it is my blog and I can do what I like...


Hamsters Have Remarkable Potential: A Case Study

This is a short account of my hamster's personal journey. After reading C.B. Jones' article "Squeak: Help Your Hamster Reach It's Full Potential", I decided to put his guide into practice. What intrigued me most was a hamster's potential to advance mentally. What was that potential? I went straight down the local pet shop and bought myself a little black Siberian hamster. I called him Plato.

While I was eager to see my hamster tackle calculus, Fermat's Last Theorem, and even "The Seven Greatest Unsolved Mathematical Puzzles Of Our Time", I knew that pushing the little fella was not the right approach. The last thing I wanted was for him to have a nervous breakdown.

I longed to see little Plato develop musically, mastering a range of instruments from the flute, the violin to the grand piano. Oh to see him playing Rachmaninov on a Steinway, or playing lead violin for the Royal Philharmonic. But I knew I would have to wait. For starters, the little chap couldn't even speak English.

I found a great old book in a charity shop titled "Teaching your hamster the Queen's English", by Dr H. Furry - a pseudonym I presume. As we worked through the exercises, Plato made rapid progress. Dr Furry also provides excellent explanations as to why hamsters struggle with certain aspects of the English language. Due to their tight, circular jaw bones, hamsters tend to struggle with long vowel sounds. For example long "a" sounds tend to come out as long "o" sounds.

This caught me out a few times. "Where does my name come from?", Plato asked me. "Your Gnome? What Gnome?", I replied. I had thought about getting him a gnome, but had opted against it deciding that a huge gnome in his cage may have freaked him out.

In addition, due to their long front teeth hamsters tend to struggle with the "th". Statistically, hamsters that have "chew toys" are more likely to overcome this impediment. Dr Furry provided all sorts of graphs, charts and diagrams, but I won't bore you with those. I gave Plato some chew sticks but they didn't make much difference. For the rest of his short life he pronounced "the" as "twer", "thingumabob" as "twingumabob".

In Chapter 12, titled "Who needs angels?", Dr Furry introduced me to the relatively unknown world of hamster song. He explained that while hamsters tend to sing several octaves above soprano, the sound is actually very beautiful, angelic in fact. He warns about allowing your hamster to sing when dogs are nearby, as this has been known to drive the barmy. I got Plato singing "Jerusalem", which not only gave me a terrible headache - his shrill, squeaky voice was awfully piercing - but the sound made our neighbor's dog violently sick.

Plato developed a rapid mastery of English, and quickly moved on to the classical languages, koine Greek in particular. He started strong, but struggled with the notorious Third Declension. I think it was just too complex for his little hamster mind. He tried to explain this to me but, hell, what do I know about that?

I paid for him to have a few piano lessons but, much to my dismay, he gave up after several weeks. He started strong, and picked up some scales very quickly, but it was such effort for him to force down the ivories that he would tire very quickly. He persevered for a while, but it was Scot Joplin that finally did it. The fast ragtime beat meant he was charging up and down the piano like crazy, huffing, puffing, and getting extremely hot and bothered. That was the first time I heard him curse.

In the end I bought him a tiny accordion, and a little green felt hat with a red feather. This was pretty funny to start with, but after a few weeks of constant Gypsy Folk music played on a tiny accordion I was feeling exhausted. I'll tell you what, there is nothing worse than a small rodent playing shrill gypsy jigs on a tiny little accordion. Fortunately he quickly grew out of that.

I decided that newspapers would be helpful in introducing him to the human world. I gave him some tabloids to start with because their target mental age is about five years and I didn't want to chuck him in the deep end. He didn't like the Page 3 girls. "Why are twere naked girls?", he asked. "Um, it is, um, it is for the builders", I said, struggling to know how to explain all this to his little hamster mind. "They like that kind of thing." Builders? What was I on about?

"But twats immoral", he replied. I scolded him for using the word "twat", and then realised he was saying "that", and his goofy hamster teeth were in the way as usual. I changed the subject, and got him the Daily Mail instead. He liked the big, bold font, but said the "shock factor" really irritated him. I thought that was pretty observant for a young hamster.

As he matured he began to read more widely. I gave him a list of renown books and told him to get to work. He enjoyed the Bible, though he complained about all the genealogies. He appreciated the stories with animals in the most, but was a little disappointed that no hamsters were mentioned in Genesis.

He found "Das Kapital" very dull. It was "illuminating", he told me, but had made him vow never to join the communist party. Phew, I thought. I couldn't imagine much worse than a communist hamster. Incredibly, he read it in a week.

It was around this point that he began suffering from eye strain. He was reading an awful lot, and his close proximity to the text (he had to clamber onto the book to read it) was straining his eyes. I took him down to Spec savers to see if they could provide him with some glasses. We went away empty handed, the assistant mumbling something about it all being quite "non-standard". This is complete tosh. I know plenty of hamsters that wear glasses.

He was particularly interested in his namesake, so I got him a little copy of The Republic. He didn't like the class systems described, nor did he like the attitudes towards the "disabled". In fact, he moaned about a whole lot. The advocation of censorship. The twisted involvement of the state in family life. "Wasn't Hitler heavily influenced by Plato?", he asked. "Um, I don't know", I stammered. "And isn't Plato generally respected and revered as a great philosopher, despite his freaky totalitarian views?", he questioned. This was getting a bit deep for me so I changed the subject. Secretly though, I was pleased that he was using his little brain. Maybe he would develop a political career, even becoming Prime Minister one day.

And then he told me he wanted to be a "philosopher-king". In retrospect, I think this was roughly when his delusions of grandeur began. It was around about this point that he started acting strange. He had been drinking wine for a while, out of his plastic bottle of course, but then he asked for a silver goblet.

"You what?!", I exclaimed. "Where the hell am I going to get a miniature silver goblet from?!"

"EBay?", he asked. Smart answer. It took me a while to find what I wanted. A search for "tiny silver goblets" revealed nothing. Neither did "hamster quaffing". Then I had a brainwave. A quick search for "unusual doll's house accessories" and I had exactly what I wanted.

C.B. Jones warned about "delusions of grandeur", but I had no idea that achieving the right balance between encouragement and discipline would be so difficult.

For a few days he dabbled in cartography, drawing little charts and maps of his cage. They were remarkably accurate, and I was impressed that he knew which direction North was - I mean, he didn't have a direct view of any windows, so he must have been using a special hamster sense.

But then they became more detailed, adorned with globes, beasts, angels and crowns. Oh yeah, and hamster "philosopher-kings", with flowing robes and silver goblets.

In retrospect I should have acted earlier. I should have confiscated his William Blake book and his goblet. I should have rationed his wine. Instead, I fueled his literary cravings by providing literature on the ancient Greeks, the gods, King Arthur, and a copy of "Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines". I even let him out on the windowsill.

He would sit there for hours watching the birds. On that fatal day I arrived home to find him by the open window, standing next to an open tub of beeswax, a wax wing fixed to each of his four little limbs. On his head was a tiny golden crown.

He flew out the window and I never saw him again. I just hope that he didn't fly too close to the sun.

Goths and Cucumber Sandwiches

The wedding took place in a beautiful Norman church deep in the heart of Norfolk. Deep in the Norfolk countryside. The mud on the path to the church was pretty deep too. The heels of the stilettos sank deep in the mud. Deepness all round really. The guests staggered, slid and stumbled their way to the church.

The groom's family were a cucumber-sandwich-eating, Earl-Grey-drinking, doilies-throughout-the-house contingent from Hertfordshire, representing English polite society in its purest form. Think tweed suits, broad fancy hats, court shoes, pince-nez.

The bride's family were a skull-ring-wearing, alternative-lifestyle, couldn't-give-a-monkey's group of Goths from Norfolk. Think clumpy boots, long coats, skull rings, dressed all in black. Every male Goth had long below-the-nipples black or red hair. They made Ozzy Osborne look like a Take That fan.

You have to admit it, this congregation had a certain élan. The Hertfordshire family sat on the right, the Goths on the left. You could feel the divide. Prim old ladies sitting nervously, sneaking glances across the aisle at the skull rings. Prim old ladies do not like skull rings. They prefer giant opal rings of the size that could crush a man's skull with single strike. One of my biggest fears is being knocked off my bike by an old lady's giant clunking opal-ringed fist.

The groom was waiting nervously at the front. He received a phone call to inform him that his ailing mother was on the way, she was being brought by ambulance. Shortly after this a whisper makes its way to the front. "She's here," was the hushed message.

The music started, congregation stood and turned round, the groom's mother was making her way down the aisle in a wheelchair with a drip in tow. The organ was rapidly hushed, the congregation returned to their seats, it was a tragic moment. By no means am I mocking the groom's ailing mother, but it was a tragically comic scene. Five minutes later the bride arrived, her bridesmaids clad in mustard yellow medieval gowns. The organ started again, the congregation stood up...

The reception took place at a roadside cafe, but there was no roadside cafe food. Instead a cheap and scant buffet was laid out, consisting primarily of pork pies, cocktail sausages and quiche. There was a stampede to the buffet resulting in a number of scuffles. I understand this completely. Cocktail sausages should always be the cause of unalloyed jubilation. I do worry about the cocktail sticks though, in the wrong hands these could be extremely dangerous. If an adolescent hamster got hold of one he could use it as a javelin. My hamster is incalculably selfish and puerile and I wouldn't trust him with a cocktail stick for a moment.

The bride and groom's first dance was to Black Sabbath. The prim old ladies did not join in. The goths were in their element.

The drama at the buffet was eclipsed by the events as the evening drew to a close. The bride's sister lap danced her boyfriend of two-weeks in front of her just-divorced ex-husband, who responded by slapping the her, who in turn attacked him with her stiletto.

It was, without a doubt, the most bizarre wedding.

Mission Impossible (thanks Cactus)

Today's post is destined for disaster. My task, as outlined by San Diego Momma, and as set by Cactus Petunia, is to write a post "about Elvis, and a pink dressing gown, referencing Election Day 2012 and Madison Square Garden in NYC".

So in short, a recipe for disaster. Whatever follows (as I write, I don't yet know what will follow) will almost certainly be complete tosh, lack any ounce of sagacity, and If I get any points it will be simply for insanity.

*****

It is Election Day 2012 (doesn't time fly!) already. Special Agent James Ostrich sped through New York on his mini-scooter, a man of the nicest scruples, but a man born with an inbuilt disposition towards the mismanagement of time.

It may not be his fault. I can offer a number of plausible explanations. Maybe he grew up in a house with no clocks. Maybe his house is resident to a mischievous poltergeist who perpetually sets the clocks back. Maybe he belongs to a strange cult that teaches that watches are "of the Devil". Most likely of all he simply is incapable of managing time. Twenty years on the job, twenty years of being late for work, why do such people torture themselves like that?

Anyway, he was late again.

Unfortunate enough to have the surname of Ostrich, he was even more unfortunate to have the general deportment of an ostrich. An ostrich in a mini-scooter race.

His latest assignment was to monitor an expected rendezvous in Madison Square Garden. Not that there was a rendezvous expected. It was merely a ploy by his superiors to get him out of the way during the election. The last thing Obama needs on the day of his re-election is to be knocked over by an ostrich on a mini-scooter. Actually, the last thing Obama needs is chronic diarrhea, but there was nothing Ostrich's superiors could do to prevent that.

Across town in an apartment overlooking Madison Square Garden, Elvis was preparing his escape. He had planning his escape for the last year, a tortuous year to say the least. A daily subjection to Hound Dog had almost driven him insane. Almost. Gathering together his last remaining threads of clarity, he forced open the door of his cage and hopped out. Though a small hamster, a strict exercise regime and healthy diet had given him an unnatural strength.

Snatching his owner's pink dressing gown, he ran and leaped out the window, the dressing gown functioning as a bright, towely parachute. Elvis had learnt that one from Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible 3. As he sailed out the window Elvis' owner ran into the room.

"MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM! Elvis has left the building."

Ostrich, Elvis, the mini-scooter and the pink dressing gown tangled together in an unholy mess. Ostrich picked up the limp hamster and examined the name tag (yep, this little critter had a collar).

"My gosh," he said, "the King is dead."

James Bond's Alpha Romeo

The two women were wasting my time. I've always felt very protective of my time, I don't have much of it, and I have no allowance in my schedule for that kind of tomfoolery. Or any kind of tomfoolery.

When I write, it is pretty much always in my lunch break. My precious, inestimable, invaluable hour-long slot that rapidly disappears as imbeciles steal my time from right under my nose, twisting it, beating it and flushing down the toilet.

I'm an off-the-cuff writer (like most of my friends here), meaning my endless, mindless, brainless drivel just splurges out in one hit, and then lunch is over, so I post it. Not that I'm particularly proud of that, as the resulting flood of grammatical errors is enough to make a grown man cry.

Note, I use the word "writer" loosely here. When I say writer, in my head I just hear "blah blah kerfuffle blah".

So in order to make the most of my hour, I shoot straight out of work and straight to the same old same old pub, which has cheap coffee, cheap beer, free wifi and (best of all) hardly any customers.

So today that was where I headed, ready to utilize my hour with the sort of efficiency that makes me a good programmer, but destines me to be a bad listener (I try, I really do).

Bringing about my demise, two women single-handedly (or quad-handedly?!) whittled away at my hour as they dithered, faffed and fuddled their order. In the time they took to klutze their way through the simple task of buying two burgers and two drinks I could have carved an Alfa Romeo GTV6 out of a single tree trunk using nothing but nail-clippers and a teaspoon. For the sake of flippancy and continuing the recent hamster theme, I could also have carved an entire colony of hamster joy-riders. Fully seat-belted in.

For the sake of expediency, and for the sake of my diminished lunch break, here's a quick questionnaire for you.

Q) Did the two women have any idea what they wanted to eat or drink before they attempted to order?

Q) Did the two women state they were paying together using a two-for-one deal before they ordered, or did they wait until after the order had been put through the till? Or did they try to pay cash, before discovering that they did not have the correct change? Or did they try to pay separately by card, but discover that individually their costs were below the "minimum card limit"? Or did they somehow, with mindbogglingly imbecility, manage to combine the above three options into one huge mammoth-sized fuddle?

How to direct a hamster nativity play

I have read a number of articles recently on making Christmas decorations and scenes, so I've decided to lay out how to direct a nativity play casted by hamsters.

I ought to let you know that this venture is not for the fainthearted or the frugal. Directing a cast of hamsters can be exhausting, and the little critters aren't cheap either. I mean, even when playing a minor role a hamster will expect you to pay through your nose.

The Cast (all hamsters are assumed to be Syrian)

Mary : One heavily pregnant hamster. You want her to be roughly 16 days pregnant on the day of the big production.

Joseph : A male hamster.

Baby Jesus(es) : Played by one of (or all of) the babies in the mother hamster's womb. There are some complications which need to be considered, but I'll cover this below.

The Three Kings : Three male hamsters. For diversity's sake, one should be black, one brown and one white.

The Shepherds : Three male hamsters.

Flock of sheep : 30 white baby hamsters.

The Donkey : A large male hamster.

The Production

The play should move very fast, as hamsters are very restless creatures. It starts with Mary and Joseph arriving at the stable. Mary should be riding on the donkey. From experience, I should warn you that the donkey typically does not like this, and Joseph and the donkey often end up fighting over Mary.

Upon arriving in the stable, you want Mary to give birth to the baby Jesus(es). Timing is everything. A Syrian hamster will give birth any time after 16 days, so you will want to delay the production until she is just about ready.

Note, while a Syrian hamsters' litter sizes average 6-8 pups, they can be as large as 20. You have two options. Either have one baby Jesus, and sneak the rest of the babies out the back, or have multiple baby Jesuses, which is historically inaccurate. If you go with the latter, bear in mind that the stable could get pretty chaotic.

It is important to have an extra pair of hands available to keep the baby Jesus(es) from being eaten by Joseph or the donkey.

Now it is the time for the shepherds to arrive with their flock of sheep. You will need another pair of hands to prevent the shepherds from eating the sheep. Actually, make that several pairs of hands. The shepherds should be wearing tiny little headscarves, which can be made cheaply from an old tea towel.

It is wise to place the set on a thick plastic sheet, as the flock of sheep tend to wee everywhere, which is extremely unprofessional, and smelly to say the least. Whatever you do, don't place the stage on your parent's new carpet, or your grandma's antique cabinet. Hamster wee is very acidic.

The time has come for the three kings to arrive. They should be wearing little pointed hats, which are easy to make from paper. Little pointy booties are also an option, although hamsters find these difficult to walk in. If you go down this route, be wary that the three kings can become quite aggressive if they keep tripping up on stupid pointy boots.

At this point you want the cast to prepare for the final bow. This is extremely difficult to orchestrate, and the stable will be chaotic and full of "activity". If you are not vigilant, the kings, shepherds, Joseph and the donkey will end up fighting furiously. Watch out for any escaping sheep.

I should add that a consent form should be filled out by every member of the cast, excluding the baby Jesus(es), who will be covered by their mother's signature.

Nipple Cream Sales Soar : Some Blame The Credit Crunch

Nipple cream has always been a niche product, with an unsurprising clientele of breast-feeding mothers. What most people don't know is that for years nipple cream has been used by professional rowers because, basically, it is the best stuff out there. It is also notoriously expensive, often costing ten pounds or more for a 30ml tube.

In recent months nipple cream sales have surged. There are various theories as to why this is. Some have speculated that the credit crunch has spurred the increase in sales, with punters seeing nipple cream as a safe investment.

Tom, former investment banker, explained that "Nipple cream is the new gold. There isn't much of it about, it has a high value, and the best thing of all is that it moisturises and softens your nipples, which in my opinion makes it better than gold. It is also easier to carry around than bullion. It comes in such great little tubes."

The venerable Doctor James Nip, head of Sociology at Mammilla University, has another theory, believing that it is metrosexual men who are driving the trend. The liberal press has thoroughly welcomed his research, with one acclaimed columnist writing "We've always believed that everyone has the right to soft, moist, nipples. The deliberate targeting of breast-feeding mothers is exactly the type of disgusting discrimination that we are trying to stamp out."

Astonishingly, part of the increase in sales is attributed to the pet shop world. Pet shop owner Harvey Jones gave us some surprising information. "In the pet world nipple cream has become a force to be reckoned with. We use it on Guinea Pigs' nipples, which is a more traditional use I guess. Contrary to popular belief, Guinea Pigs actually have very sensitive nipples, and when you have 6 babies suckling constantly there is a lot of wear 'n' tear on them. If anyone needs nipple cream it is Guinea Pigs.

We also use it on Parakeets' beaks to prevent dryness, and I've recently started massaging the stuff into the scalps of my hamsters - it prevents the dandruff that hamsters typically suffer from. We give all our hamsters a nipple cream head massage three times a day."

"Isn't this extremely costly?", our correspondent asked, noticing that the price of a baby hamster had risen from three quid to a full one hundred pounds. "I do it because they're worth it.", Harvey replied.

Since TKMax brought out their jacket with a concealed knife, some of the people we interviewed are hoping they will bring out a jacket with a concealed nipple cream dispenser. And this hope is not limited to breast-feeding mothers either. Kev from Essex is also after such a jacket.

"Me and my mates are all after that jacket. Nipple cream is not just for girls, we also like our nipples to be moist and soft. And why shouldnt we. What are you looking at bruv?"

Hamsters Have Remarkable Potential : A Case Study

This is a short account of my hamster's personal journey. After reading C.B. Jones' article "Squeak: Help Your Hamster Reach It's Full Potential", I decided to put his guide into practice. What intrigued me most was a hamster's potential to advance mentally. What was that potential? I went straight down the local pet shop and bought myself a little black Siberian hamster. I called him Plato.

While I was eager to see my hamster tackle calculus, Fermat's Last Theorem, and even "The Seven Greatest Unsolved Mathematical Puzzles Of Our Time", I knew that pushing the little fella was not the right approach. The last thing I wanted was for him to have a nervous breakdown.

I longed to see little Plato develop musically, mastering a range of instruments from the flute, the violin to the grand piano. Oh to see him playing Rachmaninov on a Steinway, or playing lead violin for the Royal Philharmonic. But I knew I would have to wait. For starters, the little chap couldn't even speak English.

I found a great old book in a charity shop titled "Teaching your hamster the Queen's English", by Dr H. Furry - a pseudonym I presume. As we worked through the exercises, Plato made rapid progress. Dr Furry also provides excellent explanations as to why hamsters struggle with certain aspects of the English language. Due to their tight, circular jaw bones, hamsters tend to struggle with long vowel sounds. For example long "a" sounds tend to come out as long "o" sounds.

This caught me out a few times. "Where does my name come from?", Plato asked me. "Your Gnome? What Gnome?", I replied. I had thought about getting him a gnome, but had opted against it deciding that a huge gnome in his cage may have freaked him out.

In addition, due to their long front teeth hamsters tend to struggle with the "th". Statistically, hamsters that have "chew toys" are more likely to overcome this impediment. Dr Furry provided all sorts of graphs, charts and diagrams, but I won't bore you with those. I gave Plato some chew sticks but they didn't make much difference. For the rest of his short life he pronounced "the" as "twer", "thingumabob" as "twingumabob".

In Chapter 12, titled "Who needs angels?", Dr Furry introduced me to the relatively unknown world of hamster song. He explained that while hamsters tend to sing several octaves above soprano, the sound is actually very beautiful, angelic in fact. He warns about allowing your hamster to sing when dogs are nearby, as this has been known to drive the barmy. I got Plato singing "Jerusalem", which not only gave me a terrible headache - his shrill, squeaky voice was awfully piercing - but the sound made our neighbor's dog violently sick.

Plato developed a rapid mastery of English, and quickly moved on to the classical languages, koine Greek in particular. He started strong, but struggled with the notorious Third Declension. I think it was just too complex for his little hamster mind. He tried to explain this to me but, hell, what do I know about that?

I paid for him to have a few piano lessons but, much to my dismay, he gave up after several weeks. He started strong, and picked up some scales very quickly, but it was such effort for him to force down the ivories that he would tire very quickly. He persevered for a while, but it was Scot Joplin that finally did it. The fast ragtime beat meant he was charging up and down the piano like crazy, huffing, puffing, and getting extremely hot and bothered. That was the first time I heard him curse.

In the end I bought him a tiny accordion, and a little green felt hat with a red feather. This was pretty funny to start with, but after a few weeks of constant Gypsy Folk music played on a tiny accordion I was feeling exhausted. I'll tell you what, there is nothing worse than a small rodent playing shrill gypsy jigs on a tiny little accordion. Fortunately he quickly grew out of that.

I decided that newspapers would be helpful in introducing him to the human world. I gave him some tabloids to start with because their target mental age is about five years and I didn't want to chuck him in the deep end. He didn't like the Page 3 girls. "Why are twere naked girls?", he asked. "Um, it is, um, it is for the builders", I said, struggling to know how to explain all this to his little hamster mind. "They like that kind of thing." Builders? What was I on about?

"But twats immoral", he replied. I scolded him for using the word "twat", and then realised he was saying "that", and his goofy hamster teeth were in the way as usual. I changed the subject, and got him the Daily Mail instead. He liked the big, bold font, but said the "shock factor" really irritated him. I thought that was pretty observant for a young hamster.

As he matured he began to read more widely. I gave him a list of renown books and told him to get to work. He enjoyed the Bible, though he complained about all the genealogies. He appreciated the stories with animals in the most, but was a little disappointed that no hamsters were mentioned in Genesis.

He found "Das Kapital" very dull. It was "illuminating", he told me, but had made him vow never to join the communist party. Phew, I thought. I couldn't imagine much worse than a communist hamster. Incredibly, he read it in a week.

It was around this point that he began suffering from eye strain. He was reading an awful lot, and his close proximity to the text (he had to clamber onto the book to read it) was straining his eyes. I took him down to Spec savers to see if they could provide him with some glasses. We went away empty handed, the assistant mumbling something about it all being quite "non-standard". This is complete tosh. I know plenty of hamsters that wear glasses.

He was particularly interested in his namesake, so I got him a little copy of The Republic. He didn't like the class systems described, nor did he like the attitudes towards the "disabled". In fact, he moaned about a whole lot. The advocation of censorship. The twisted involvement of the state in family life. "Wasn't Hitler heavily influenced by Plato?", he asked. "Um, I don't know", I stammered. "And isn't Plato generally respected and revered as a great philosopher, despite his freaky totalitarian views?", he questioned. This was getting a bit deep for me so I changed the subject. Secretly though, I was pleased that he was using his little brain. Maybe he would develop a political career, even becoming Prime Minister one day.

And then he told me he wanted to be a "philosopher-king". In retrospect, I think this was roughly when his delusions of grandeur began. It was around about this point that he started acting strange. He had been drinking wine for a while, out of his plastic bottle of course, but then he asked for a silver goblet.

"You what?!", I exclaimed. "Where the hell am I going to get a miniature silver goblet from?!"

"EBay?", he asked. Smart answer. It took me a while to find what I wanted. A search for "tiny silver goblets" revealed nothing. Neither did "hamster quaffing". Then I had a brainwave. A quick search for "unusual doll's house accessories" and I had exactly what I wanted.

C.B. Jones warned about "delusions of grandeur", but I had no idea that achieving the right balance between encouragement and discipline would be so difficult.

For a few days he dabbled in cartography, drawing little charts and maps of his cage. They were remarkably accurate, and I was impressed that he knew which direction North was - I mean, he didn't have a direct view of any windows, so he must have been using a special hamster sense.

But then they became more detailed, adorned with globes, beasts, angels and crowns. Oh yeah, and hamster "philosopher-kings", with flowing robes and silver goblets.

In retrospect I should have acted earlier. I should have confiscated his William Blake book and his goblet. I should have rationed his wine. Instead, I fueled his literary cravings by providing literature on the ancient Greeks, the gods, King Arthur, and a copy of "Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines". I even let him out on the windowsill.

He would sit there for hours watching the birds. On that fatal day I arrived home to find him by the open window, standing next to an open tub of beeswax, a wax wing fixed to each of his four little limbs. On his head was a tiny golden crown.

He flew out the window and I never saw him again. I just hope that he didn't fly too close to the sun.