IT is about a year since we let our ferocious goldfish, Sid Fishcious, loose in a newly-dug pond. He had led an increasingly larger life from firstly a plastic bag at the fair, then a goldfish bowl, progressing to a fish tank and, from there, a cattle-drinking trough with an annual visit to the sheep trough at silage time.

Sid grew from a couple of inches long to more than a foot in length, and extra round the middle. When the cattle trough started to leak, he made his final move to the unplumbed depths and lapping shores of a genuine pond to keep several smaller goldfish company.

But lo, a miracle has occurred. Sid was not Sid at all but Sidwina instead. The bulging sides must have been an advanced state of potential motherhood, and the inescapable fact is that although the accompanying goldfish were little, one of them must have been very advanced in the puberty stakes.

Sidwina, who can frequently be seen cruising the surface of the pond, is now not only accompanied by a score or so of very small goldfish, but also by a hundred or so very tiny baby goldfish. And they are only the ones we can see.

Several more escapees from our farm are due to join the fish. Our Muscovy ducks have gone into overtime on the duckling production line, and half a dozen baby ducks are due to be re-homed on the same pond. The ducklings were hatched out under a broody goose sat at the side of the pond. Her own eggs were addled and had not hatched out after five weeks of sitting.

My husband John and his friend substituted the duck eggs for the rotten goose eggs when she had gone off her nest for a quick wander around, and she has taken to the ducklings without any bother. Maternal love can be very blind, even to the extent of accepting a different species.

My biggest disappointment in the family stakes is turning out to be the peacocks. Peepee the peahen is not remotely interested in Mr Peacock any more. I think I must have introduced them at the wrong time. After a very promising beginning to the romance, her interest has waned sharply, and she is now more taken with an untidy looking, raucous cockerel, than she is with the sleek, iridescent, Mr Peacock.

At night, she roosts with the hens and Mr Cockerel is in the big shed, perched on top of the corn drill. Mr Peacock rocks himself to sleep in a Copper Beech tree. During the day he tries very hard to engage her interest, but she just snakes her head back and forth in a very irritated manner, ruffles her feathers huffily and dances out of his reach. After ten minutes or so he goes to perch on the gate and plan his next unsuccessful move.

One way or another Mr Peacock has taken the rejection badly. Either because he is suffering from a broken heart, or moulting time is near, the yard is covered with cast-off tail feathers. His tail, until recently resplendently sweeping the ground in a jewelled cascade of colours, is now stubby and short. The feathers will grow back and be even more superb than before, but now he can lift nothing higher than a tuft of blue.

Even the cockerel can manage a burst of red. Red for danger thinks Peepee; I'll go for the flash one and wait until that dandified fellow can prove he has something more to offer than a flick and a promise.

Updated: 11:25 Thursday, July 05, 2001