“Do you need any help?”

My husband has a particular talent for asking this at exactly the right moment — when the cookies are almost ready, or when something has just hit a hot pan and the whole kitchen suddenly smells wonderful.

I know perfectly well he is not there to help.

Sometimes he takes a banana. Mostly, he wants to know what I’m making.

“Mum, can I cook today?”

That question comes from my teenage son, and whenever I hear it, I feel happy and nervous at the same time.

Happy because he is becoming independent. Food Tech at school has taught him his way around the kitchen, and he is now confident using the equipment and trying recipes that interest him.

Nervous because I already know what the kitchen will look like afterwards.

A mess.

Between the two of them, my kitchen is rarely the peaceful place we see in cooking videos. And when I started creating Koko, I realised I didn’t want Angelina’s kitchen to be one either.

But Koko needed more than a little family imperfection. A fox, a squirrel and a hamster helped bring him to life.

One hot summer, a fox decided that our shared garden was the perfect place for an afternoon nap. Six households share the garden; suddenly there were seven. When I disturbed him while hanging out the washing, he showed me his teeth. I politely withdrew.

My husband brought him water and food. The fox returned to exactly the same spot the next day. Apparently, the room service was satisfactory.

Then there was a squirrel. I fed it some peanuts one morning. Two hours later, it was back at my window, calling as if to say, We know each other now. Why are you ignoring me?

And finally, Jerry, our hamster and serial escape artist.

Jerry escaped four times, chewed our sofa and damaged the carpet. Once, after three missing days, a neighbour appeared carrying a covered plate. For a moment, I thought he had brought us food.

He lifted the cover.

There was Jerry, happily chewing on a chicken bone.

These animals taught me that every creature comes with its own instincts, habits and plans. My family taught me something surprisingly similar. The people we love do not simply fit themselves neatly around our lives.

Somewhere between my husband appearing when the food smells best, my son turning the kitchen upside down, a fox claiming our garden, a squirrel assuming we were friends and a hamster determined to explore the world, Koko came alive.

We look for companionship because none of us wants to feel completely alone. Yet the people — and animals — we let into our lives interrupt our plans, take up our space, make a mess and sometimes even hurt our feelings.

We want them close. Sometimes we desperately want them to leave us alone.

Perhaps we cannot have one without the other.

Sharing a life means making room for someone else — for their needs, their habits, their moods, and all the little ways they change our own. We give up a little quiet, a little space and a little control.

But perhaps that is simply what it means to share a life.

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