The hamster is no more. I can’t even begin to tell you what happened. Let’s just say, I’ve vowed that, other than our cat, we won’t have any more pets until after the summer.

Summer 2018.

Our astounding failure at rodent petcare aside, I’ve been answering some tricky questions about hamster heaven.

“Is it on a cloud?” (yes, very high up); “What do they do up there?” (they’ve got wheels, tunnels, exercise balls and all sorts); “How do they get there?” (erm, fly); “Can you see them go up?” (no, it’s too fast).

And the question that had me stumped: “Which was the first hamster to go to hamster heaven?”

Then there’s the difficult, thorny issue my older son is really angry about: “Why did the vet kill Hanny-Wanny?”, followed by a dramatic outburst of tears.

He was surprisingly attached to his hamster, despite the brevity of it all (two weeks!), and even my DH wouldn’t sign the euthanasia paperwork, leaving that one on my conscience.

But it was the kindest thing after the unspeakable, and the vet (who was gorgeous!) was very understanding.

“It’s a good idea to replace the hamster,” he mentioned helpfully as we said goodbye to dear Hanny-Wanny, “for zee emotions.”

“And, for boys of this age group,” he said, glancing at BB and LB standing silently and solemnly by the examining table, “I suggest a guinea pig. They’re a lot more robust.”