LIFE has been something of a social whirl since upping sticks.

Having a new home somehow acts as a magnet for friends and family to "pop round" meaning that the weekends I have lived there have been spent entertaining.

A quick check of one's diary reveals a free day tomorrow but on Sunday the Long Suffering Marjorie's best pal is popping over from Newcastle where she is on a trainee journalism scheme. For the Mirror no less.

The obligatory visits by the Folks and the in-law were got over with in the infant stages. The LSM's parents and brother (another journalism wannabe! Doesn't anyone want to be strung-out rock stars any more) gave us invaluable help when we moved in while my Folks tore up the M6 from Sunny Rochdale that very weekend.

Billy Boy and the Big Sis -- complete with the Golden Boy and the Mite -- gave hugs and kisses last weekend and were ushered on the same whistle-stop tour of the city which is now becoming all too familiar.

On your left is the castle but it's now a prison etc.(gasps from the tour party.)

And now you are crossing the Millennium bridge one of the many features designed to celebrate the year 2000 blah blah blah. Be quick to take your photographs the tour bus leaves in five minutes.

I'm not complaining --to have items of note on your doorstep is a joy -- but I'm beginning to feel like an extra in Groundhog Day.

The Folks thought the new place was "brilliant" and -- Mother Dearest especially -- were more interested in the well-concealed boiler and airing cupboard than the places of high historical significance. My dad expressed a particular liking to the electrical workings of the house and was soon huffing, puffing banging -- and swearing -- as he tackled the outside light after I made the mistake of telling him did not work. It still doesn't but 'A' for effort.

Billy Boy and the Big Sis were more appreciative of the surroundings, especially the pub with "ample beer garden for the kiddies" but could not disguise their real delight. The Ikea furniture. None of it is ours mind -- but the landlord obviously has a penchant for the minimalist look as does the Big Sis and Billy Boy. The Golden Boy and the Mite both took a shine to the wooden floor and the noise it makes when you continually batter your toy pull-along train against it. Bless them.

But probably the most memorable visitor thus far to Chez Jamie's was my old pal Fred the Dread.

He has been mentioned in these pages before but for those new to the column (hello by the way) he is a 27-year-old single child with dreadlocks. A white Bob Marley if you will. And he spills things without -- because he's an only child -- cleaning up after himself.

His legacy can still be seen in the One Bedroom Flat I have just vacated by means of a once-blue carpet, now complete with a number of red wine stains resembling a map of the world.

As befits someone of his ilk (dreadlocked) the Dread is a travelling free spirit and has recently returned from a latest jaunt across India, Ireland, Portugal and Spain. Within a day of being back in Blighty he had tracked me down and turned up. Where we drank red wine. Had I known he was going to turn up I would have specifically bought him white.

The LSM and I both gave him strict instructions that any spillage could result in instant eviction. It's not just a case of being house proud, his handy work in the last flat almost cost me my deposit.

To his credit he politely adhered to the new rules and never lost so much as a drop and the wooden floor remains spotless to this day.

He did however bring it back up in the middle of the night over the carpet in the spare bedroom.

Well what were friends for?