In his column last week, Matthew Woodcock described what it was like living with his in-laws. Today the in-laws have their say.

"I THINK we'll sell and find somewhere bigger," our daughter said. And we said, in a mad moment, "and while you're between houses you can come and live with us."

How many parents say much the same? Isn't it a normal reaction to want to help? After all, we'd had two years of calm since the last of the kids had left the nest, and it wasn't as if we were going to be taking on an extended family with all their cats and dogs.

No, we realised on reflection, it was going to be more trying than that. It meant living under the same roof as our son-in-law, a cross between "Kevin the Teenager", and Frank Spencer.

We have nothing against Woody, we love him really - sometimes. Others know him even better than we do, such as all those he lodged with before he got married. When we told one or two "guess who's coming to stay for a while", there were knowing looks, and sharp intakes of breath.

They seemed to be asking "do you realise what you are taking on?". I had some idea. Our paths first crossed during youth club days, and myself and a colleague took it in turns kicking him out for being a pain in the backside. I admit to saying to my mate on one such occasion, "just think, one day some poor devil is going to marry him".

Confirmation that it was going to be our lovely daughter came when Woody turned up at the allotment and formally asked for my permission. A definite mark in his favour, that, but he was pushing his luck. I was holding a potato fork at the time.

So what's it like, living with the nightmare of the youth club? Not quite as bad as we feared, except for his clumsiness, his noisiness, his untidiness, and that when he's used the bathroom it looks as though the England rugby team has been in there too. Then there are the downsides. It's also a bit like living with a very demanding child. "Paul, can you fix my bike chain?" "Paul, I've got a sore throat", "Paul, how do you switch this light on?".

His practical skills are non-existent, or so he'd have us believe. Apparently his behaviour might be a psychological syndrome. There's a book about it, Learned Helplessness or something. Bone idleness more like. He never ceases to amaze us with his lack of common sense either. He's not interested in buying houses and leaves nearly everything to Anna. I don't understand him, and it's not just the generation gap. He'll quibble over the sale-price of a shirt, but is indifferent to the biggest single purchase of his life.

When they went to look at a semi, Woody was fed up with the whole thing after a couple of minutes. By the time they reached the landing he said "Okay, this'll do", as if he was choosing a pair of jeans. He's a right Herbert, isn't he Sue?

LEAVE him alone, Paul. If it was up to me I'd iron his shirts, but Anna says no. She insists he should do it himself. To be honest, I've enjoyed having them here. For one thing we're all losing weight because Woody is on a diet and just wants pasta all the time.

When I think about it, that lad has a knack of getting what he wants, but I draw the line at some things.

The first week of his arrival, I was horrified to see that he'd balanced a glass of red wine on the arm of the settee - and with his track record for knocking things over!

And it can be a bit much when he leaves his underpants lying around, or asks me questions like "where are my shin pads?", "where are my shoes?", "where's my coat?".

I seem to be following him around putting things away. It's like he's reverted to childhood.

YES, Sue, and that's partly your fault.

You want to mother him, while there are times when I could smother him.

Still, not much longer and then we'll be back to normal.

I can't say I'll miss him bursting into our bedroom at the crack of dawn wearing only stripy Y-fronts, strumming three chords on his guitar, and trying to serenade us.

If a woodcock were a grouse, I'd say "roll on the Glorious 12th" and swap my potato fork for a shotgun!