LAST night I got into a bit of argument with a friend that went on to become a full-scale, full-on, no-holds-barred fight. Oh dear.

Now when I say friend, what I actually mean is a colleague, a fellow reporter at the Lancashire Evening Telegraph, the girl who sits directly opposite me in the office, if you want to be precise.

And usually we get on great, I must say, despite the fact she originates from the south and talks about lock-ups and guv'nors all the time in a cheeky Cockney drawl.

We go for lunch, we moan under our breath to ourselves about the other, not-so-perfect people in the office, like colleagues so often do, and even go out together after work from time to time as mates.

In fact, if you were on a late-night bus between Manchester and Rawtenstall recently you may even have spotted us on the top deck, a bit squiffy I must say, but generally having a great laugh handing out boxes of Celebrations we swiped from the hospitality suite of a show.

You may even have been lucky enough to catch the odd mini Topic or Mars bar as I flung them in the air and between the seats all the way home.

But anyway, you get the picture. We're not sworn enemies or anything. We don't usually hate each other's guts and we have never before come to blows about anything.

And especially not some bloke.

Only last night a particularly tasty next door neighbour joined the equation I'm afraid.

She said he was nice. So did I.

She said: "He's my next door neighbour."

I said: "Tough luck, baby." And pointed at her in an arrogant, Jean Claude Van Damme kind of way.

It escalated from there and ended up with the pair of us clearing the desks away in the office, constructing a full scale boxing ring like something out of All American Fight Night and setting about each other in a particularly vicious bare knuckle bout.

At one point I was dancing around in my silky, shiny Everlast shorts and dinky Reebok boxing boots, fists up in front of my face, jabbing away while simultaneously giving it the old Muhammad Ali favourite: "I float like a butterfly, sting like a bee."

Scary, I can tell you -- and that's just the shorts.

We knocked the proverbial seven bells out of each other with no mercy and were punching each other's lights out big style apparently... when Victoria woke up.

And yes, in true Wizard of Oz style, it was all just a dream.

But how completely and utter mad.

I mean, where did it all come from? I've never even seen her next-door neighbour -- and after last night's performance I hope I never do, I must say.

Personally I was at home minding my own business while all this was going on, though I was dreaming about a psychotic version of Big Bird from Sesame Street, I must admit. Good job it wasn't Oscar -- now he is scary!

Someone had bought me a custard-coloured VW camper van as a present and I wanted a similarly-coloured soft toy to hang from the rear-view. Only I touched this little toy in the shop and it sprang to life like the Incredible Hulk, burst up into an eight-foot monster and killed everyone in sight. I ran away but the camper van wouldn't start. It was all a bit of a panic -- and then I woke up.

But what do you make of that?

Admittedly, I had been talking about birthdays and caravans that day -- and the camper van actually belongs to a neighbour down the road -- but, honestly, I haven't watched Sesame Street for absolutely yonks.

I think I might introduce a blanket ban on bedtime cheese and biscuits in this office. What do you think?

Had any weird and wonderful dreams? Drop me a line and let me know I'm not on my own here, please.