Friendships can quickly wane when you're living under the same roof, writes Fifi Box

THERE are two types of house guest: the one you'd happily invite back and the one you never want to see at your door again.

fif box house guests

THERE are two types of house guest: the one you'd happily invite back and the one you'd rather treat to an ocean-view room at a ritzy hotel than have stay in your home again.

I was divorced by my best friend

Friends have become the new family

Friendships can quickly wane when you're living under the same roof, and many have succumbed to the classic "Who finished the milk and put the empty carton back in the fridge?" scenario.

Personally, I love having friends to stay and I pride myself on being a good host. Not because I lay out fresh towels and leave a mint on my guest's pillow (I never said I was Martha Stewart), but because I'm incredibly chilled out. I don't worry about cup rings on the coffee table; I don't mind if you eat while sitting on the couch; I have no problem if you empty the fridge (more often than not, it only contains milk and butter).

I've always prided myself on my hospitality, but a recent experience has caused me to reconsider my 'mi casa es su casa' policy. From now on, I'm making every guest sign a contract similar to a tenancy agreement.

It all started when a friend found himself between homes and I offered to put him up for a few weeks. On his house-guest report card he scores a big tick for 'company', because we get on like a house on fire, but let me take you through the negatives column - including a big cross for the time he nearly set my house on fire (aromatic candles by the bathtub are a lovely way to unwind at the end of the day, but not as tranquil when left burning next to a box of tissues).

Like many housewives - but minus the perk of a loving husband - I soon found myself picking up wet towels off the bathroom floor, wiping food off benchtops and scrubbing pots and pans that had been abandoned on the stove top, caked in grease. I even had to dispose of a used Band-Aid left on the dining room table.

I wish the list stopped there. He also managed to leave the airconditioner on all day while we were at work, despite my continuous requests to turn it off, and somehow broke my front door handle, leaving the door swinging on its hinges, inviting even the most dim-witted burglar to help himself to my plasma TV. These incidents were annoying, but it was when he nearly killed me that I realised my days as a patient landlady were numbered.

It all unfolded one morning as I unloaded the dishwasher (another chore that had escaped his attention). What I didn't know, as I lowered my hand in to remove a plate, was that a butcher's knife was poking
blade-up and about to skewer my wrist. In fact, the knife was so sharp I didn't feel any immediate pain as I impaled my hand on it; it was the blood spurting across the kitchen wall that alerted me to the drama.

After passing out on the floor, I slowly regained consciousness and the shock of the situation gave way to anger. This was the last straw. He had to leave, with our friendship on hold. I couldn't believe he could be so thoughtless and irresponsible. I mean, everyone knows you ruin chopping knives if you put them in the dishwasher.

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Catch Fifi on Seven Network's Sunrise and Fifi and Jules on Melbourne's Fox FM and Sydney's 2Day FM. Email [e-mail]