The awkward moment with the goldfish.

I don't know why, but whenever there was an animal brought into our lives, my dad would nearly always do something, that in retrospect, is edging towards the peculiar.

He wasn't putting his willy into any of those dear little creatures - don't get me wrong - but he did cause moments of mild pandemonium, minor discomfort, and generally did make me think twice about asking for a dog. Maybe that was it: He hates dogs and never wanted to introduce one into the family, so to ensure our home stayed dog free, he'd put us off the idea by hanging the cat over the banister by the scruff of her neck (much to mine and my brother's squeals of protest), shooting mice that she brought in (to put them out of their misery of course - God I hated holding the torch), and doing bizarre things to fish.

My porn name is Goldie Vowden, named after my first goldfish and my mother's family name. Not as brilliant as my friend Joel's which is Roger Knightly. A dog called Roger, really. Actually, next door there's a cat called Stuart and I did know a photographer named Tony Biggs who had a Staffordshire Bull Terrier called Steve. On its collar was a beautifully crafted golf name tag with Steve Biggs proudly engraved onto it.

Anyway, Goldie the imaginatively named goldfish was won at a fair by my uncle Barry. It had a short life, lived in a small bowl on top of our fridge and I'm sorry to say that Goldie's novelty wore off not long after the first sprinkling of multi-coloured flakes had sunk.

Still, Goldie should think himself lucky. After him, we had a beautiful, yet jumpy cat called Kanya. She was black and we all loved her. My mum always said she was neurotic, but I think if my dad had held my mother over the banister by the scruff of her neck, then she'd have been a little on the nervous side too.

I like to think that he did this to make myself and my brother appreciate the cat more. It must have been an act of cunning instead of an act of intolerable cruelty, because we were always so relieved that she hadn't been dropped down the stairs, and loved her all the more after all the squealing had died down. Perhaps he saw how poor little Goldie was forgotten about all the way at the top of the fridge and with pious effort and incredible success, made sure the cat wasn't going to follow suit.

Goldie might have had a short life, but his end was at least with some quiet dignity, which is more than can be said for the second goldfish we had, a few years later. We got to the stage where we wanted fish again, forgetting the rather forgettable experience with Goldie. My parents gave in and agreed to allow us a second chance at looking after a scaly pet. If we could manage simply looking at the thing, it would have been a small success following the unwatched Goldie.

So we went fish shopping. Me, my brother and my dad. We traipsed around from pet shop to pet shop, checking out all manner of amphibian. My father is always one for 'shopping around' whether it be for a car or a small pet. So we trawled through the pet shops, metaphorically kicking the tyres of all the fish tanks we saw.

There was this one aquarium place on the A3 which had a number of larger, more scary, brown types of fish. They must have been for grown ups who still lived with their mum, because they were serious fish, not pretty little fair ground wins.

Inside one tank there was nothing but a solitary fish, floating in the middle like he was meditating. It was the same shape and size of a piranha and for all we knew - it could have been. It's bottom row of incisors only confirmed that if not an actual piranha, then a rare Tolworth variety it must have been.

On the tank was a silo-taped sign saying: KEEP FINGERS AWAY FROM WATER. Even a child could tell that although the resident of this tank was staying quite motionless, he still looked like a vicious bastard and sticking even one pinkie in his house could result in surgery.

But it was one of those signs that suggests something that wouldn't have even occurred to you and then double dares you to do it. A classic trap. They always get me too. I remember one day at work there was a huge wrapped palette in reception, and on it was a notice that said: DO NOT TOUCH. Well, every time I went past to go to the toilet I just had to give it a single defiant prod with my finger, which had there not been a sign instructing the opposite, wouldn't have even crossed my silly, rebellious mind.

However, on this occasion in the aquarium place, it wasn't me who got all tempted, oh no. I may have a silly, rebellious mind, but I'm not totally daft. It was my dad who rose to the challenge, reached up and slowly dipped a finger into the tank. What with water playing that wonderful visual effect of mirroring whatever enters it, it must have looked to the Tolworth Piranha as if a strange sausage was materialising right above it's head.

I don't know if Tolworth Piranhas are commonly used in the entertainment industry as racing fish, but this one was bloody quick. No sooner had my dad stuck his chipolata in the water, the Tolworth piranha had turned, grinned and zoomed up, mouth open to devour the trespasser. He sunk his tiny teeth into my dad's finger and didn't let go. As his pulled his hand from the tank - piranha still attached - I felt a combination of horror and utter embarrassment. Everything seemed to slow as the piranha was bashed on the side of the tank in an attempt to loosen it's grip.

I felt sorry for the fish who was doing a good job at holding on. He was probably quite surprised that the chipolata had turned into a panicking human, but probably not quite as surprised as my dad was to being attacked in a aquarium shop. After a couple of successful blows to the head the piranha released my father and sploshed back into the tank, a little riled at being pulled from his world. Thank God the thing didn't let go and fall on the floor. I'd have been mortified and what's more, we'd have probably had to buy it and take home a dead pet. Needless to say me and my brother were ushered out of the shop rather quickly which we didn't mind because it was all fairly embarrassing.

After that debacle, I don't think we continued much more shopping around and settled on a big tank and four fish; one goldfish, two fan tails and a white and red thing. They were rather splendid to look at and both myself and my brother enjoyed putting in various props like sunken ships, marbles and rocks for them to ignore.

Now these fish were very well looked after, mostly by my mother, I must add. I say well looked after, although one did jump out in a rather horrifying suicide bid. I don't know what he had to moan about, but coming home from holiday to find a dried up fish stuck to you carpet is pretty horrible. It was one of the ones with a big tale too.

Maybe it was the food he was complaining about. We'd leave one of those badly named 'holiday blocks' in the tank and expect them to survive on it. Holiday blocks. It's hardly a holiday for the fish is it, being effectively starved? Those things should be called, 'Make yourself feel better when you leave your fish to starve blocks' because I can't think they are a very good substitute for real fish food.

Anyway, on the whole those fish were pretty happy for fish. They survived bloody ages. In fact the last one was five when he finally got ill and could only manage to swim in feeble circles, all pale and decaying. I remember his last day quite clearly. Me and my brother were peering into the tank, just watching the poor little fellow paddling with one fin. In comes my dad. He's a sort of no-nonsense chap, a very Austrian Austrian, possessing a remarkable and unflinching practical nature. He could see the fish was dieing. He knew it was suffering. So he threw it out the window onto the garden path below.

Me and my brother looked at each other in a strange combination of disbelief, excitement and repulsion. We probably didn't know what face to pull, so legged it downstairs to check whether the fish was dead. It was. Very dead.

As with many times in my life I can partly understand my father and partly not understand him. On one hand, throwing the fish out of the window was an act of kindness; on the other it was the sort of thing you'd expect from a heartless prison guard when an inmates only friend is blowing his last bubble.