THE tragic story of Fluffy the guinea pig has all but extinguished my desire to have children.

Listening to my traumatised friend, a mother-of-two, recount this terrible tale concluded a revealing week of children-related incidents and encounters that has made me question whether I ever want our home to contain a nursery.

During a visit to my sister, days earlier, I had no such doubts and was already imagining the Thomas The Tank Engine wallpaper.

An afternoon spent with my gorgeous baby niece never fails to ignite my passion to start a family - as long, that is, as she is smiling, asleep and has a clean nappy.

The faintest whisper of a whimper that could potentially turn into a scream and I make my excuses and sprint for the door. How do parents cope with that noise?

Watching my friend handle being a father for the first time has been another useful insight. I've seen him explode with joy when his son said "daddy" for the first time and drank from his beaker unaided.

I've also helped him clean sticky currants and squashed banana from his new DVD player and washed off the modern art created on his newly-painted wall. "It's all worth it, though," he assures me. I'm still not convinced.

Last Sunday, I watched in shocked helplessness at the antics of my six-year-old goddaughter during a church service.

Expertly giving my uncle and aunt the slip, she crawled under the vicar's communion table as he was blessing the bread and wine.

Respect to the rector, though, who did not flinch or fluff his lines when she repeatedly yanked the bottom of his trousers and flapped the tablecloth. It could only have been divine intervention that kept the silver goblets of wine upright.

The previous day, I was also in church to witness one of the greatest moments of fatherhood - a beaming dad escorting his daughter down the aisle. He savoured every step.

The day had a special poignancy for the father as he recently lost both his son and grandchild. He remembered them fondly during his moving speech at the reception.

Some couples find the potential worry over the future safety of their children as a reason not to have them in the first place.

Alan and Marjorie Stuttle, the parents of murdered York backpacker Caroline Stuttle, are two very good reasons not to think that way. Despite feeling the loss every day, they have always made it clear that their lives will be forever enriched by 19 years worth of memories.

"I'm much more aware of looking at things through Caroline's eyes," Alan once told me.

As I mentioned earlier, the distressing demise of Fluffy is the real reason I'm reticent for my wife and I to reproduce.

The story begins when our friend discovered her 17-year-old daughter Jenny (not her real name) had thrown a secret party after being left home alone for the first time last year.

Things got broken, there were gatecrashers, girls were violently ill after downing cider - you get the picture.

In light of this, the house was made off limits when her mum, step-dad and ten-year-old brother recently went on holiday. Jenny was ordered to stay with her grandparents, not the most attractive prospect when you've just secured an older boyfriend.

Instead, she skipped college and sneaked home to play with her new love's terrier dog in the garden. Going inside to fetch some lettuce for the family guinea pigs, she returned to a scene of flying fur, savage growls and piercing squeaks. The dog had got inside the hutch and was eating Fluffy.

Despite a frantic rescue attempt, her brother's beloved pet died of shock. Jenny's mother, hoarse from shouting and in need of another holiday, is now forced to restore peace in the household despite being on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Her son has cried for a week and vowed never to speak to his sister again. Jenny is in a sulk after being grounded for five years and forced to spend a month's pocket money on Angel - Fluffy's replacement.

Their mother's advice on the issue of parenthood couldn't be any clearer: "Don't do it!"