I am in love with a pig. Sweep, a little black one the size of a kitten, is nestled in my arms and has fallen asleep, silky ears twitching, which makes me dare to hope he's in love with me too. I stroke his hair and inhale his piggy smell – hot, damp earth, with a touch of chocolate digestive. My heart swells to bursting. I imagine this is how new mothers feel, only they're probably less smitten. I want a micro pig more than I've wanted anything in my life.

I am not the only one. Yesterday it was reported that Victoria Beckham has bought David two micro pigs – surprise! – for Christmas. They probably came from The Little Pig Farm, run by Jane Croft in the Fens, but she's not saying. She greets me at the gate with a pink-and-brown-spotted micro pig under one arm and puts him down in the outdoor pen, where he scampers off. She opens the door of a shed and there they are, a pile of miniature pigs cuddling up to each other on a bed of straw and listening to Classic FM.

Croft has been breeding micro pigs for two years, and has sold nearly 400 as pets at around £700 each. They are selectively bred from a mix of pot-bellied, New Zealand kune kune, Gloucester Old Spot and Tamworth pigs until they attain tiny proportions – fully grown, they stand at just over a foot. They make, it seems, brilliant pets – they are affectionate, can be house-trained, learn their names, and Croft says they are more intelligent than dogs. The only restriction is that under Defra rules, you need a livestock licence to move them around. Still, the phone rings constantly, especially now Christmas is coming (as presents, not dinner). "I'm not really selling them as presents, and I won't sell to anybody," says Croft, who vets people to check they know what they're taking on – micro pigs need a large garden, should be kept in pairs and can live for 18 years.

Sweep, Croft's house pig (he even sleeps with her in bed, curled up under her arm) trots back to his basket and she gives me Moonpig, an eight-week-old with warm pink skin who squeals, then settles and nuzzles my shoulder. She thinks I'm her mum! I am a pig! I am not being dramatic when I say that life without this porcine poppet suddenly looks bleak. A plan forms – I could hide her in my handbag.