We are complaining that Nan-next-door won't get a pet - probably she feels she has enough contact with animals as she has to endure Nan's increasing menagerie (the two Nans live in adjoining houses).
We mooch around the garden looking for trouble. Uncle Colin finds an ants' nest, we poke it with sticks and pour water on it (I know that childhood cruelty to insects is often seen as an indicator of propensity to serial killing - but let me assure you that neither of us followed this path - he went into cars and I follow the same profession as Casanova). Uncle then suggests that we adopt the ants as our pets, so we get the big mixing bowl from the kitchen and one of Grampy's trowels and begin to put our pets in their new home along with the sandy soil that they like. I want to give them names, but Colin tells me to stop being soft and get digging -while he supervises.
When it starts to rain we take the mixing bowl into the house. We leave it on a shelf in the pantry and promptly forget about it. Nan-next-door is not amused to find the Sunday trifle overrun with ants.