I KNOW I bang on about not having friends, and you would think that the lack of them in my life would perhaps spur on my sociability.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not the person to sit and sulk when in the company of strangers, and on a recent trip to Chicago with people whom I had never met before in my life, I had a whale of a time.

But there are situations to which I must draw a line. Like house sharing.

If I didn't live with the Long Suffering Marjorie, I'd most probably live on my own. It would undoubtedly cost me a fortune (no change there then) but I would rather stump up that extra bit of cash than compromise my own space. It would certainly be worth it.

I started thinking of this after a weekend away in Derby to see a mate.

The Muppet has lived down there for the past two years when he took a job in computers. I've seen him a few times since, but never actually been to his place.

Plans had been made on a number of occasions, only for him to scupper them at the last minute.

One such planned visit was scrapped just minutes before I was setting off. I only found out when I rang him to check the directions!

Course, I thought he was being plain rude, and -- in truth -- a bit simple but, as with all feeble excuses and odd behaviour, there was a genuine reason behind it. Good old sheer embarrassment.

Last weekend our other pal, Fred the Dread, and myself insisted on visiting him at his place.

With the Dreaded one in Cambridge and myself up here, the three of us (who all grew up together in Sunny Rochdale) rarely get together, and when we do it is invariably at my house or (once) in Cambridge.

When we got there, late on Friday night, I could think of no reason why he hadn't allowed us in before. His house is grand enough with all the mod cons and plenty of room.

From the outside the local pubs seemed respectable enough (which we found out in due time they were), and the only one of his three housemates who was in at the time was fine, chatting away amicably like we had known each other for years.

Then the mood suddenly changed.

The laughter soon fell silent, as the key in the door turned. A voice entered the room, long before any figure, bellowing down the hall.

I could pick some words out, and none of them seemed to be complimentary.

The voice -- female -- was talking about the car outside in 'her' parking space (my car it transpired), the shabby shoes in the hall cluttering the place (the Dread's size 9s) and generally being intent in seeing all that is bad with the world.

When the door flung open the voice was given a form. A not-bad looking girl in her mid 20s, but her beauty belied the beast within.

No hellos were afforded to the Dread or myself. Instead she focused her attention on The Muppet, demanding to know when he was going to clean the mess.

She then ran into the kitchen only to discover the Dreadster had eaten her last pack of Quavers, unbeknown to both her and the Muppet, whose face revealed the expressions of a man who, had he known what the Dread was earlier doing in the kitchen, would have made every effort to stop him.

Regardless of the fact that his two best pals had travelled hours to see him for the first time in months, she made him go to the shop and replenish her supply. After he had cleaned up of course.

All this and they are not even married. The Muppet only knows this girl because they so happen to live in the same house.

It's not even hers, but the way she acted was as if she owned the place and the Muppet was an unwelcome intruder -- even though he was there first.

The next two days were spent watching my poor old hapless friend crucified by the housemate from hell!

We are not due to see each other until well into the New Year but I can guess where the meeting place will be.

And it won't be in Derby.