A truly catastrophic relationship; She's needy, neurotic and whines about his cooking. COSMO LANDESMAN hoped a moggy would help heal his broken heart. Now he wants to celebrate Valentine's Day by ditching her.(News)

Byline: COSMO LANDESMAN

FOR THE past year, I've been living with the most irritating femail in Britain. She -- Chloe -- is neurotic, needy, lazy, emotionally cold, manipulative and bossy. Oh, and she smells. And drools.

This week is our first anniversary, and while most couples are busy celebrating Valentine's Day, I am facing a big decision: get a divorce or go crazy.

Yesterday, we had another big row. (We now row every day.) Usually, I just give in to her demands -- mostly involving her endless requests for more attention.

But this time something inside me snapped and I shouted: 'I can't take it any more! All I get from you is endless whining. What about me? What about my feelings? What do I get from this relationship? Nothing! We can't go on like this.'

It then occurred to me that I was having the same conversation with my cat that I'd had with my second wife just before we broke up.

Did I mention Chloe was a cat? Not just any cat, but the most irritating cat in Britain. And I think we both know that unless something changes soon, one of us is going to have to move out.

Like all relationships, ours began with the best of intentions. I'd just broken up with a beautiful, sexy and brilliant girl... who was totally bonkers. 'I need a woman who is sane and will love me for ever,' I told a friend.

'Fat chance of that,' said the friend. 'What you need is a cat.'

I thought about it -- and though I'd never had a pet before, I decided it would be worth a try. The truth was, I was single and kind of lonely. I needed someone I could care for and fuss over a little bit.

It would be nice to have an occasional cuddle by the fire in the evening with a beautiful and affectionate creature. Even if she had four legs rather than two.

Now, I know what some of you might be thinking. Men (real men, that is) don't do cats. Men do dogs. Preferably big dogs.

But I've always thought that dogs are too demanding; too high-maintenance. At least cats are more like women -- perfectly capable of looking after themselves.

Or so I thought, until Chloe came into my life.

We met the old-fashioned way -- through a mutual acquaintance. My cat-loving friend knew a woman who was moving to America and wanted a home for her moggy.

We exchanged emails, and looking at the photos of Chloe, I'm not ashamed to admit it was love at first sight. She was a real beauty, with lovely green eyes and autum-nal reddish-brown fur.

I rushed out and bought everything a cat could want -- a lovely furry cat basket, litter tray and a collar.

I stocked up on the finest of cat foods, special cat milk and even started reading How To Make Your Cat Happy books.

I should have known that something was up when Chloe's owner dropped her off. She was a highly-strung woman with a nervous twitch in her right eye, who thrust a cat box in my hands and said: 'This is Chloe. Goodbye and good luck!' Then darted out the door.

'Wait!' I said, following her onto the street. 'What do I feed her?'

'It doesn't matter. She'll never eat anything you give her.'

BACK inside, I nervously opened the box. The first surprise was that Chloe looked nothing like the adorable creature I'd seen pictures of. It was like meeting a person from an internet dating site who bears no resemblance to their online profile: you're expecting Angelina Jolie, then along comes Ann Widdecombe.

My beautiful Chloe was, in fact, a mangy cat with one long fang hanging from the side of her mouth.

She dashed off and hid under a table for the rest of the day. I tried to coax her out with kitty treats, but I could tell she wanted to be alone. The feeling was mutual.

If it took a little time for Chloe to adjust to her new surroundings, it took me even more time -- and patience -- to adjust to her incessant demands.

Chloe, it turned out, wasn't remotely self-sufficient. She was like a spoilt Hollywood starlet -- and I was expected to be her servant.

From the moment I awoke to last thing at night, she would harass me with her needs for food, water, tummy-rubbing, whisker-stroking, the opening of doors or the cleaning out of her cat box.

I should point out that when Chloe wants something, she doesn't utter a soft 'meow'. No, Chloe shouts a plaintive 'KNEEEEEEOOOOOW' over and over again.

My cat-lover friend said: 'Sometimes you just have to ignore her.' But how do you ignore what sounds like a car alarm that never stops?

Unless I give in to Chloe's demands, I get no peace. I've tried going to the bedroom and locking myself in to work. But she stands outside the door, screeching. She even does it in the dead of night -- 'KNEEEEEEOOOOOW!'

One of the things we fight about most is food. If there's one thing worse than a child who is a fussy eater, it's a fussy-eating cat.

My cat friend told me that I should feed her dry food; but she won't eat it. She won't eat most brands of wet food, either. So I end up trying homemade dishes like meatballs, fish stews and my special Cosmo Cat burger -- complete with a sprinkle of cheese.

YET IS Chloe appreciative? Not a bit of it. I'll slave over a hot stove for that creature, only to have her turn up her nose and take off.

I thought that if we could just have some fun together, then maybe that would bring us closer together. So I bought cat toys galore: furry mice, fluffy squirrels, a catnip-filled cigar and even special kitty bubbles (they don't pop when they hit the ground).

Chloe would look over every new item for a second, then yawn, turn around, stick her bum in the air and saunter off.

If her personality leaves a lot to be desired, then so does her personal hygiene. I thought that cats kept themselves clean, but when Chloe grooms herself she ends up looking even rougher.

And she smells. I don't mean smells like a cat, I mean really smells. It's not her breath, it's her fur. The smell is so bad that I have to wash my hands every time I pet her.

And while we' re on the subject of petting -- she never just sits still on my lap and lets me stroke her. She fidgets and wanders around my lap, shoves her tail up my nose, pushes her bottom into my face and sticks her claws so deep into my shirt that I end up walking around the room with her hanging around my neck like a mink stole that's still alive.

Do I get any affection back? The odd gentle nuzzle? Never.

Naturally, she disapproves of all my habits. If I play my guitar, she gives me a look that says, 'You're pathetic!' and leaves the room. She's neurotic, too, so I have to tiptoe around the flat or she freaks out and dashes off as if her life was in danger.

Even early on in our relationship, I found myself looking back with nostalgia on my days as a single, cat-free man. But I was determined to make it work.

So, like many unhappy couples, Chloe and I tried therapy.

My cat lover friend arranged for a pet therapist he knew to come and see us. He spent most of the time quietly looking at Chloe, and when she eventual ly let out her familiar 'KNEEEEEEOOOOOW', the therapist said: 'I feel your pain.'

To Chloe, not to me. My pain, it seemed, was irrelevant.

AT THE end of our session, the therapist turned to me and said: 'I think your cat is fine, Mr Landesman. But I suggest you need to see a therapist.'

Strangely enough, my last wife made the same suggestion the day we split up.

So here we are, one year on, and I'm facing the prospect of another failed relationship.

As all you happy couples head out for your Valentine's meals or cuddle up under the duvet, I'll be pondering how much longer Chloe and I can go on like this.

Is the writing on the wall? Is divorce inevitable? Or is the first year always the hardest for co-habitees?

On reflection, I think I'll give it another few months. It's the least I owe her. And if I haven't gone mad by the time next Valentine's Day comes along...well, who knows. Chloe and I might even have a future together after all.

Say cheese! Why we all love Rastamouse

FORGET Danger Mouse and Mickey Mouse. There's a new rodent in town. And he's very chilled out.

Rastamouse is the newest show on children's TV channel CBeebies. It features an animated Rastafarian mouse who plays in a reggae band and fights crime. His mission? To 'Make a Bad Ting Good'.

Since launching in January, Rastamouse has become the most watched CBeebies show, with a cult following not seen since the Teletubbies. Its secret? Well, the skyhigh ratings owe something to the number of adult viewers. Citing it as the most subersive thing since The Magic Roundabout, they claim to have uncovered coded references to marijuana when Rastamouse says 'cheese' (refuted by the programme-makers).

Whatever the truth, Rastamouse is here to stay. There's even an album in the pipeline.