A frog he would a wooing go . . . and very successful he was too, judging by what was found in my back garden.

It was The Mother who discovered it. She let out such a yell I thought she'd seen a naked man hanging out his washing.

Naturally I hurried into the garden. There was no man, clothed or unclothed, to be seen but The Mother was bending over a pile of bin liners.

A couple of months ago she'd wrapped the bags around some old, rusting gardening equipment, intending to throw it out.

"Come here," she hissed, as if the entire street might be listening in. "Just look what I've found."

So I looked and what I saw was absolutely revolting. "What is THAT?" I asked her.

"It's frogspawn," she said as proudly as any new mum.

"Yuck!" I said. "We've got to get rid of it, I'm not having hundreds of frogs taking over the garden."

Then I had a thought. "Where's it come from?" I asked.

"Have you forgotten our frog?" she said. "The one that comes and stands by the back door whenever it rains heavily."

The Mother, of course, has encouraged its nocturnal visits, leaving out little bowls of water. Perhaps she imagines 'her' frog is going to turn into a handsome prince.

"Doesn't it take two to produce THAT?" I said, looking at the disgusting spawn.

"I suppose it does," said The Mother. "A mummy and daddy frog creating their own nursery in our garden. How sweet."

"Sweet nothings," I replied. "While you and I have been asleep in our beds we've had a colony of fornicating frogs taking advantage of our hospitality."

"Stop talking nonsense and get me a bucket," said The Mother.

"Why do you want a bucket?" I asked, feeling a tingle of suspicion.

"Because I'm going to find a good home for this frogspawn," said The Mother. The pond in the park rockery will be ideal."

"How do you intend to get the spawn to the pond?" I asked.

"I'll carry it there," she said. I knew she would, too, frogmarching all the way if necessary.

The park is half a mile away, across a busy main road. "I can't let you do that," I told her.

"You mean you'll take it for me?" she said.

No, I told her. "But what I will do is find an even better home for your frogs," I promised.

Fortunately I know a man who, if he can't help out personally in any given situation, usually knows someone who can.

"Know anyone who'd like a bucket of frogspawn?" I said casually as we sat in a pub waiting for a couple of toasted BLTs to soak up the alcohol.

He responded as if I'd said: "Would you like another half in that glass?"

"Actually, I think I do," he said. "One of my neighbours has got himself a 'water feature' for the garden and his kids are carrying on about getting some wildlife in there. Tadpoles would be ideal."

"They're not quite tadpoles yet," I said, "but with a bit of TLC they should soon be hopping around like champions."

When I got home I told The Mother that a good home had been found for her frog slime, sorry, spawn.

She was pleased, of course. Where, she asked, was this home?

"A chap who owns a French restaurant," I said. "He reckons fresh frogs legs will go down a treat with his customers . . ."