So, since that initial disastrous flat viewing two months ago, I have been living under the same roof as my nemesis.

I have also replaced that dubious keyring with one that is far more in keeping with my own personality. I can't actually remember the exact wording on it, and my bag is on the other side of the room right now, but it's something like Follow Your Dreams or Live, Laugh, Love. Something inspirational. The most important thing though is that it looks pretty . . . Oh, and this one doesn't feature the word "dickhead" on it, of course. I mean, that's just bad karma.

When I removed that unwanted keyring from my bunch of keys, I laid it neatly on the kitchen counter in case Ric was particularly attached to it and wanted it back. It was still sitting there a month later; so eventually I just chucked it in the cutlery drawer, next to a bottle opener in the shape of a penis. Classy.

I started moving in on the Monday, two days after I'd checked the flat out for the first time. Lou and Tam helped me. They were actually so eager to assist, I started to suspect their high volume escapades had been partly intended to smoke me out of our flat so they could have it to themselves. But if that meant they felt guilty enough to do most of the heavy lifting, I was totally down with that.

"Wow, it's actually really nice in here," Lou marvelled, as she helped to manoeuvre my bookcase through the front door and into the hallway. "I was worried you were going to end up in a crack den."

"Not concerned enough to stop me from moving out though," I muttered, propping my bedroom door open with the box of DVDs I'd been carrying.

Blithely, she pretended she hadn't heard that. "It's so big!"

"Hey, you usually only say that to me!" Tam protested, complete with a suggestive leer. Blurgh. I did not need to hear that. Anymore.

A very good timely reminder of why I was moving out.

When we'd managed to unload everything from Tam's van into my new room, he and Lou headed home, presumably to have excessively loud sex in the only room they hadn't yet done it in - my old bedroom.

Meanwhile, I looked around at the mess of boxes and furniture, and figured I'd start properly unpacking and arranging my belongings the next day. My back was already aching from all the lifting and carrying. I decided to head to Waitrose (the nearest supermarket - I'd need to find a cheaper one going forward, unless I was planning on winning the lottery anytime soon) and pick up some shopping.

The next evening, when I got home from work, I'd discovered the extra-posh spinach & ricotta pizza I'd bought (and had really been looking forward to) was missing.

The empty box, however, was in the pile of cardboard waiting to be recycled next to the bin. Taunting me. Ric hadn't even tried to hide his crime. Injustice burned a trail of fury inside me. It drove me to his bedroom door. My fist thudded angrily against it.

This was already becoming a theme, me furiously banging doors because of him.

When he opened it, he actually had a slice of my pizza in his hand. "What's up?" He asked, as if it wasn't obvious, casually taking a large bite. He was dressed similarly to the other day, in jogging bottoms and a t-shirt, and his dark eyes looked bloodshot, like he'd pulled several all-nighters in a row.

"You're eating my pizza!" I tried to keep my voice calm. I actually did feel on the verge of tears. The thought of that pizza had been keeping me going all day. Remember what I said about taking my food seriously? I bloody well meant it!

"Sorry." To be fair to him, he looked slightly more apologetic than he had on Saturday, when he'd told me the wrong time, and repeatedly ignored the buzzer. But not by much. "I'm on a deadline, and I had no food in. And it looked like you had plenty of other things you could eat."

"That's not the point!" I wasn't in the mood for the fancy-pants ravioli, or the extraordinarily-special chicken pie, or super-dooper spag bol ready meal, all of which had cost me an arm, a leg, and my soul. I'd wanted the pizza. Only the pizza. I felt like Ross from "Friends" when his boss ate his sandwich. "Couldn't you have just ordered a Domino's?"

Ric shrugged. "I honestly didn't think of it at the time." He devoured another bite of pizza. My pizza. "I get hangry." He must have finally realised how annoyed I was, as he suddenly winced. "Clearly, you do too. Listen, I'm going shopping tomorrow; I promise I'll replace it. And your bottle of Irn Bru."

"You drank my Irn Bru too? For fucks sake Ric, I've been here less than 24 hours and you're already just helping yourself to all my stuff? This is unacceptable." I was fuming.

He did look a little bit more contrite after this. "Like I said, I'll replace them both. Tomorrow. Honestly. Okay?" He held up his hands as if in surrender.

"Okay." I backed off and started backing away, realising this was the best I could hope for. The pizza was already gone, after all. I had to move on. "Just make sure I have them by the time I get home tomorrow." I needed the last word.

He nodded.

I actually thought, for the very briefest of seconds, that I'd won.

Until he spoke again, of course. Because it already seemed that, when it came to Ricardo Parker, I would never really ever get to win.

"Just for future reference though, Abby?" He winked, and shot me a grin that was pure cheek. "I prefer meat toppings on my pizza."

And before I could say anything else, my mouth dropping open in rage, he firmly closed the door between us. I even heard him lock it, as if he was actually worried for his safety.

To be fair to him though, the next day I opened the fridge to find a new spinach and ricotta pizza sitting there and two bottles of Irn Bru. He'd left a note next to those. I got you an extra one. Don't say I never give you anything. ;-)

I even briefly smiled at that. Maybe he wasn't actually so bad after all.

Unfortunately, he continued to be a naughty boy. At least once a week, something of mine would disappear from the shared fridge or, even more annoyingly, from my own food cupboard, which he shouldn't even be looking in. It was always, without fail, replaced within 48 hours maximum . . . but somehow Ric had this uncanny ability of always managing to "borrow" the one food item I was currently craving.

It was as if we shared a brain . . . At least when it came to food. Except for pizza toppings, obviously.

In a slightly childish strop, I bought stickers, and plastered my name over every item of food and drink I owned . . but even that didn't deter him.

On the rare occasion I encountered him long enough to pull him up about this, he'd laugh and say I was over-reacting. Rule number one, Ric, never tell a hormonal woman, angry over her missing giant Galaxy bar, that she's making a big deal out of nothing. I launched a bag of cashew nuts - the closest equivalent I had to both chocolate and a weapon - at him that particular day.

Then there were the girls. That brunette from flat viewing day was apparently a one-off as I never saw her again . . . But at least once every few weeks, I'd run into a new one. Usually in the kitchen, half-naked, eating my food. (Deep breaths, Abby, deep breaths.) They were always pretty, of course, but all so different in appearance that I just couldn't ascertain if he actually had a type. I was convinced though that it would only be a matter of time before I walked into one of the communal areas of the flat to find him shagging the latest one.

I never wondered what he might look like naked. Most definitely not. He annoyed me way too much for that.

He would occasionally have a bunch of friends around, and that was the rare time when he would actually make use of the living room and kitchen. He would even make sure he had food and drink sorted so that no one stole mine. But he'd never warn me in advance so I never knew when these gatherings were going to happen. Which had the potential to result in embarrassing moments when I otherwise largely had the run of the flat to myself.

My very favourite moment? I'd been climbing out of the bath one evening, when I realised I didn't have a towel. I'd hopped back into my bra and knickers to race across to my room, not even realising Ric was home . . . and I momentarily froze as encountered two guys and a girl I'd never met before standing in the middle of the hallway, looking slightly taken-aback. Ric was, of course, there too. He'd looked mildly shocked, then smirked when he'd taken in the sight of me dressed only in my underwear, before politely averting his eyes.

"I'm surprised," he said finally, as I gathered my senses and rushed towards my bedroom, cheeks (hopefully just the ones on my face) flaming. "I definitely had you down as a matching underwear kind of girl."

I'd slammed the door behind me, mortified. I usually did have matching underwear, as a matter of fact. I had numerous pretty sets. But it had been laundry day so I'd been forced to mix it up. And then I remembered some of my laundry, including a few bits of lingerie, was still drying on the big radiator in the living room. Once again, if Ric had just told me he was having folk over, I would have retrieved that sooner!

But he'd actually knocked on my door a few minutes later, with the clean, dry washing neatly folded in his arms. Thankfully, by this point, I'd put my dressing gown on. "Here," he said, holding the clothes out. I noticed he'd made sure the lacy bras and pants were tucked out of sight in the middle of the pile. "I thought you might want these back."

"Thanks." I took them gratefully. I quickly realised he was lingering awkwardly, rather than immediately walking away. "What's up?"

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry," he said matter-of-factly. "I take your point now about letting you know if I'm having a group of folk over. I'll be more . . . considerate in future."

"Wow, it's little worrying that it took you seeing me barely dressed to see the error of your ways . . . but I'll take it," I said dryly.

A muscle twitched in his cheek at that, and he glanced away again, his lips pressing together. "I'm just not used to . . . having a flatmate," he said, after a moment's hesitation. "I'll try harder," he said, as he turned and sauntered down the corridor.

That was about ten days ago now and, to be fair, he has tried. . . mostly. He still takes my food occasionally (and still replaces it) though. Oh, and his little comment last night when I got home in a state about Declan really wound me up too. Who actually says out loud to someone "I told you so"?? Surely that only happens in films and TV programmes? Don't most of us normal folk keep that shit inside?

Does he think I've forgotten how he basically implied Declan was going to fuck me over, back when I first came to view the flat? The "told you so" was redundant! It was implicit! He could have kept his big mouth, never mind his smug fucking face, to himself!

Anyway, that's all irrelevant now.

Because I think tonight I've just made the flatshare situation even more awkward, in my own special way . . .

Have you ever had a nightmare flatmate?

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