Please, nothing with Sean Bean, in it," I told Thomas, who has already had his fill of this year's Big Brother and was off to hire a video.

"I thought you liked Sean Bean," he said. "Have you seen my keys anywhere?"

I pointed out that they were in his pocket, as I had just seen him pick them up off the mantelpiece and put them there and wondered whether he wouldn't benefit from a spell in the Big Brother house himself.

That way, I would have the time I spend finding things he has just put somewhere to myself and he would be able to rewind the video and discover where he put things for himself.

But then again, if he was to watch himself on video, he would spend the whole time asking me to agree that he looks just like some actor or other - like Sean Bean.

I've no objections to movies with Sean Bean in them (apart from his questionable accents which he never quite seems to master) if it weren't for the fact that while I'm trying to concentrate on the plot, I'm constantly interrupted by Thomas commenting on the supposed likeness between them: "He does look like me, he's got the same jaw/ eyes/ cheekbones/ hair..." to which, if our household is relatively harmonious, I have to mutter noises of agreement.

If the remote control was in the other hand, as it were, and we were watching Out of Africa, Basic Instinct or Rear Window and I tried to draw a comparison between self and Meryl Streep, Sharon Stone or Grace Kelly, I'd be laughed all the way to the kitchen and forced to make tea until I'd ridden out the mirth, caused by what Thomas would consider to be the ridiculousness of any such suggestion.

"Or Harrison Ford," I added, as Thomas emptied drawers around the house in search of his video card. Harrison's another one who "definitely has" the same stature or eyes or smile or something which in reality bears no resemblance whatsoever to N&D's stature or eyes or smile.

"Or Bernard Cribbins," I shouted as he made for the front door.

Thomas doesn't think he looks like Bernard Cribbins but he doesn't think Bernard Cribbins looks like Bernard Cribbins either, so we always end up arguing along the lines of:

THOMAS: "Who's that, he looks really familiar?"

SELF: "It's a young Bernard Cribbins."

THOMAS: "No, it's someone else. The name's on the tip of my tongue."

SELF: "It's Bernard Cribbins."

THOMAS (to himself really): "What is his name?"

SELF (at risk of becoming repetitive): "It's Bernard Cribbins."

Film ends, credits role, credits show that it was, indeed, Bernard Cribbins.

Thomas accuses me of always having to have the last word and says Bernard Cribbins should have stuck to reading the Wombles.

There is no point me pointing out that he couldn't stick to reading the Wombles when, at the time of the making of the film in question, the Wombles hadn't been dreamt up.

So I keep quiet and instead, content myself with the fact that when we were out last week, Thomas was momentarily excited by the fact that someone approached him and said she was sure she recognised him off the telly.

He was then brought back down to earth by the fact that she thought he was the gawky horrible photographer off "Airport", not Harrison, Sean, John Hurt or any other Hollywood heartthrob.

As punishment for laughing at this, Thomas came home with "Trainspotting" which may be an iconic film of our generation but makes me feel queasy from the start.

"You know," he said, as I averted my eyes from the toilet scene, "I could be a double for Robert Carlisle..."