THEY say you never really know someone until you live with them.

But perhaps it should actually be: ‘You never really loathe someone until you live with them?’ Ok, loathe is perhaps a bit extreme, but let’s face it, as much as you love your other half, there are some habits they have which make you want to gouge your own eyes out with a large spoon and move back in with your parents.

After an office debate on living with the opposite sex, some interesting bug-bears of my esteemed colleagues came to light.

For one chap it was the constant stream of his girlfriend’s uber-long hairs all over his home that gets his goat. Apparently they’re on the carpet, in the plug hole, in the hoover. There’s no escaping them.

For another it was his missus tidying his stuff away, for him never to find it again. For another it was his girlfriend’s need to scatter her belongings into every room, nook and cranny in the house.

That was the boys. The girls had some interesting pet peeves of their own.

First up (if you’ll pardon the pun) was the age-old toilet seat wrangle. Men like it up, women need it down. Not to mention the filthy splash packs.

Note to guys: If you value your life, wipe it off and put it down.

There was also the perpetual TV battle. Football versus every other show on the 917 channels on the box.

First World problems indeed. A common grumble from the ladies I know is how their other halves love to procrastinate when it comes to DIY.

For one, her hubby likes to agonise over the household jobs, and fret about how much needs done, but because so much time is spent dawdling and lamenting his lot, he rarely ever gets around to actually taking action.

For another, her partner takes it one step further and draws up a ‘to-do’ list then sets about fixing the one and only thing not listed.

My other half, John is fairly acceptable in the house companion stakes. But he has a few habits which give me unrivalled (and probably irrational) rage.

First up, his unnatural possessive attachment to the remote control.

Well, in our house we call it the remote commander, but I’ve heard it called a number of other bizarre and, mostly irrelevant names such as, the buttons, the beeper, the box, the zapper, the doofer and most simply, just the remote. Whatever it’s name, it’s purpose is undeniable.

Invented for reasons of convenience and to add to the burgeoning epidemic of already-bone-idle people (me) who can’t even be bothered to walk from the couch to the TV to change the channel. Regardless of its intended purpose, an indisputable fact is that today, in every household in the land the remote control is the ultimate weapon of power. He (or she) who holds the remote control, rules the home. However, in our house it’s rare that anyone actually gets to hold the damn thing thanks to my other half’s insufferable talent for losing it down the side of the couch.

Another thing he loses pretty regular is his socks. When I say he ‘loses’ them, what actually happens is he removes them from his feet and leaves them scattered from room-to-room, a Hansel and Gretel-like trail of soggy socks around the house for me to pick-up, trip over and fume about.

This week, however, he managed to branch out and spread his sock-slinging outwith the home and I actually found them in the car. In the car!

Losing things is actually something John has turned into an art form. Well at least it would be if it wasn’t the single most irritating habit known to man.

Take the time he opened the front door using his keys, walked three metres into the living room, and managed to misplace them.

Along with keys, bank cards are top of items most vanished from his life, with him currently in possession of card issue number 22, which, surely must mean he holds some kind of record from the World Book of Haplessness.

But, of course, it’s not all one-sided. Apparently living with me is no bed of roses (who knew?). For my other half, it would seem that co-habiting with me is a constant battle of closing doors and switching off lights. Apparently I never do either. Was I born in a barn?

According to him I’m also good at moving things and having absolutely zero recollection of where I moved them to.

Of course, with me having absolutely no recollection of any of this, I couldn’t possibly comment.