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Apparently there's supposed to be something living in my C64. It's a load of rubbish, of course, but Activision insist it's true and they've sent me over some software to lure it out. They tell me it's a house. Ridiculous, they've finally flipped. Feeling like David Attenborough, I sat down to study the results.

I don't quite know how to break this to you, but there's a little bloke walking round the house that's just appeared on screen. And what's more, he's got his own dog.

His first reaction is to have a wander round the house. The place has got everything. I'm jealous of its amenities. I pay a fortune every month to live in a slum. He's got a TV, hi-fi, computer (a C64, natch) and a piano.

The first thing he does is to sit down at the joanna and rattle the ivories. It's Bach - he's an intellectual. I'd better send him a book. It seems I can send him food, water, records and books just by hitting the appropriate keys. I can even pet him. When he sits in the downstairs chair I can make a lever extend to ruffle his hair. He loves it. Another key makes the phone ring and the door chime.

I'm not sure about this bloke. I didn't ask for him. It's like having a baby dumped on your doorstep. I don't need the responsibility. Who wants a hi-tech goldfish anyway? He can't exactly fetch sticks or protect me from burglars, can he?

Wait a minute, what's that noise? He seems to be banging on the screen, what does he want? I can't take this. He's challenging me to poker. How on earth does he expect to do that. Oh, he just flips the cards on the upper screen display. F1 to bet, eh? All right then, sucker...

It's an hour later and he's cleaned me out. Every time it goe to an important moment he got up and poured himself a drink or made a sandwich. I'm beginning to dislike this little berk totally. He has annoying habits like leaving doors open and putting records on loudly when you least expect. I tell him so, but he just grins inanely at me, and switches on the telly. I bet he's a Sun reader.

I go to bed and switch the whole thing off. Perhaps he'll disappear or get run over or something. Please.

I dream all night I'm a little man in a computer. A huge face leers at me through the monitor screen. A finger the size of a lamp-post appears and squahes me. I wake up, sweating. It's early but I make straight for the computer and boot the disk up sharpish.

He's still there. Sitting calmly reading the morning paper. I run from the room cursing madly. He'll have to go. Is there, I wonder, a little computer people adoption agency? Perhaps the Salcation Army might take him. Maybe I could volunteer him for overseas service? I leave home for work and he's back at the piano tinkling away at something highbrow. Smartarse.

When I get back from work he's nowhere to be seen. He's gone! I cry with relief and reach for a copy of Winter Games. Peace at last. Just as I'm about to wreck his happy home he emerges from the toilet flushing it loudly and washing his hands thoroughly. *Aaarrrgghh!!!*

I resolved to kill him after he beat me at cards again this afternoon. He's not getting any more food and drink. Apparently they turn green and die. I wonder if you can be prosecured for it? Is there a Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Little Computer People? It may become a test case.

I feel like Christie. He keeps going to his water dispenser, glass in hand and going away empty-handed and parched. He looks glum. Good.

He's been to the food cupboard for the nth time and it's bare. He looks very hurt and not a little queasy. I've tried to keep away from the ghastly business, but I'm drawn back to the monitor screen like a ghoul. Perhaps they'll reintroduce the death penalty after this gruesome killing. Where will I dump the body? They must be building a motorway somewhere.

He's made his way upstairs and sat at the typewriter. He's hammering away at the keys and now there's a message printing out at the top of the screen. Oh no! He's appealing to my humanity. He wants his drink bowl filled up some some food delivered. He calls me friend.

He's dashed off several letters asking for mercy and I've had an idea. I can't go through with it, but seeing as how he's such a good typist he could be my personal secretary. Answer the phone, bash out my reviews - that kind of thing.

It's decided then. We've come to an agreement and I not realise how fond of him I am. No home should be without one. Why not ask Activision if they'll give you one too?