With hindsight it was a foolish decision, and an even more foolish offer.

My "ladyfriend" at the time, Krins, and I were semi-living together. She had a small holding of around six acres with a few chickens in one of those electrified run things which gives them about a quarter of an acre of space to run around in but keeps the foxes out, a beautiful garden which is her pride and joy, and a fair sized paddock.

The paddock is edged by grass banks, and that was the problem. The banks had to be strimmed constantly to keep down the triffid like weeds and the giant nettles which seemed as though they could sting you by sight alone. Krins' father, "The Monster", took it upon himself to make this his mission. For two whole days every fortnight Monster would attack the banks with a selection of petrol strimmers and other tortuous looking instruments in his bid to beat nature.

The sun was coming up on the other side of the bungalow as I sat drinking coffee and eating my Sunday morning bacon buttie when the solution presented itself in the form of an ad in the local classifieds section: "Two goats, free to good home. Must have access to good grazing."

Like a schoolchild having made a new discovery I ran into the kitchen (which got me into trouble for not removing my wellies) to seek out Krins and present her with my solution.

That same afternoon we found ourselves winding down country lanes at the back of beyond trying to find two friendly goats in the middle of a field. Using astral navigation techniques, comprehensive directions, and a fair bit of guesswork we pulled up at the gate to the field in the borrowed Transit van "just to look".

Why is it that from time to time adults regress to early childhood practises? I suddenly found myself begging "Oh please Krins? They won't be any trouble and I'll look after them?" The decision was made, and we agreed to return on the Friday afternoon to collect our two new friends.

Everything was worked out. Whilst the goats settled in they would live in a lean-to in the chicken run, eventually moving out to a field shelter when we had finished building it. The one thing that we hadn't factored in was that Krins was off on holiday for a week to a family wedding. "No problem" I said, "leave everything with me, it'll be fine"

Famous last words.

Krins left as planned on the Friday evening, and I was to stay for the week and look after the menagerie. The goats quickly and quietly settled into the chicken run, the chickens didn't seem too bothered, the cat was fine, and the dogs were the same as ever. All was well with the world, so I had one or two glasses of the red stuff, and hit the sack.

Curtains and bedrooms don't mix in my world; I like to wake up and see the day as it is as soon as I open my eyes. So being mid summer I woke at first light and looked at the cloudless sky and goats through the bedroom window.

Goats? What the hell were the goats doing looking at me through the bedroom window? They were meant to be in the chicken run nibbling away at the grass and behaving impeccably as I had planned in my dream.

Anybody would have thought that the bed was full of holly leaves with the speed that I leapt from it and dashed outside in my boxers. Throwing open the back door I was confronted by absolute carnage.

The fence which formed the chicken run had been flattened and the forty or so chickens were playing at being fox bait as they clucked around the paddock. The food and water feeders had been up-ended so corn was everywhere, the tables on the patio were upside down, and Krins' garden had been half eaten. The garden! I was closer to death than a lamb at Lloyd Maunders.

In a sudden state of panic my hyperactive mind decided that the first job was to put the fence back up so that the birds could be herded back in out of the foxes' way, followed by the goats. Fence up, electric on.

Billy and Benny, the goats, were fine where they were grazing on Hazel Contorta (a kind of shrub, not, as I first thought a character from "Harry Potter"). I was in trouble anyway, one more shrub wasn't going to make any difference. The chickens had to be first so that they were out of the way of any marauding foxes.

Rounding up the chickens outside of the pen was easy; you simply walk them towards the pen and they follow the fence around until they reach the entrance where I had brilliantly set up a system to funnel them inside. Job done.

Actually, the job wasn't done. Our favourite little black bantam Caroline was still out on the bank enjoying her freedom. In the interests of her own safety, and mine if anything had happened to her, she had to be caught.

An amusing game ensued as Caroline lead me a merry dance around the rose bushes and trees. I was covered in grass burns and had green knees ( I was still in my boxers, but did have wellies on) from trying to pounce on her. My next tactic was to lull her into a false sense of security by feigning disinterest, then pounce when she was least expecting it.

The plan was working. Caroline had relaxed and was pecking away on the grass bank above the pen when I pounced. Success! I had her. The trouble was, I may have had the chicken but I had lost my balance and was tumbling down the bank still clutching said bird.

The first jolt of electricity pulsed through me as soon as I became entangled with the string mesh fence. Both legs had gone through the netting, the fence had collapsed on top of me, the chickens were making a break for freedom once again, the dogs decided I was playing, and the goats wanted to "help" by nibbling at the only stitch of clothing that was covering my modesty as I laid there getting electrocuted every couple of seconds.

Eventually, when the place was a little more organised, the goats followed me back into the chicken run without fuss. By the end of the day I was totally exhausted and sat back to relax in the summer evening sun with a glass of Pimms watching the goats peacefully grazing.

That was probably the longest week of my life as the goats terrorised the chickens, turned the feeders over and emptied them of food, broke into the hen houses, squashed the fence on a daily basis, and created absolute mayhem at every opportunity.

By the time Krins got back the following weekend I had made many repairs and some improvements to the pen. Billy and Benny had settled a little better into their new surroundings and routine of daily grazing away from the birds and walks (yes, I did walk them on leads!), and all was well with the world.

We sat on the grass in the paddock that evening looking over the bids and animals doing their own thing; "Have you had a nice relaxing week?" she enquired, "Yes" I lied "Couldn't have been easier".