FRIDAY nights just won't be the same. Without 'Friends.' Whether teenage, twenty-something or middle-aged, the show has become an institution, a Friday evening ritual that viewers look forward to throughout the week.

Not that I can relate to it at all.

Now married with a grumpy husband and two demanding children, all I can do is watch and be envious, and wish I was young again, and wish I lived in that fabulous apartment in wonderful New York, with those great views, with such a good-looking, funny bunch of people.

There will not be many Friends fans who wish they weren't part of it.

But, let's face it, it could never be real life. And even if it was, I don't think I would fit in at all.

Imagine me, Helen Mead, with my ginger hair the texture of Brillo pads, my pint-glass figure and complexion that's more prunes and lumpy custard than peaches and cream.

Imagine me, flat-sharing with Rachel, Monica and Phoebe, three stunningly attractive women with television commercial hair, who can slip into size eight skirts with room to spare and who would freak out if they got a spot. Gorgeous-looking men would forever be popping in and out. They would all assume I was the cleaner. Wouldn't that do wonders for my confidence?

I don't think my record on tidiness would go down well, either, in the Friends' flat.

Their coffee table and draining board are always spick and span, not the sea of used mugs and empty take-away cartons that existed in my old flat-share (and, sadly, in my present home - only kids' cereal bowls have replaced the foil containers).

In fact, I don't think I've spotted one dirty mug, used tea bag or left-out-overnight tub of marg (with a knife stuck in it), in the Friends' place. They would be trawling around after me with the vacuum and I would be terrified to make a cuppa for fear of creating one item of washing-up.

To be honest, I don't think I would want to socialise with them either.

Putting their intimidating good looks aside, I'm not one for hanging around coffee bars. And, anyway, there wouldn't be room for me on their specially-reserved (well, it must be, no one else ever sits on it) Central Perk sofa.

I would be expected to hover awkwardly at the back, jostling with a piece of carrot cake and a boiling hot cappuccino.

And I don't think I could exist with the other Friends in such harmony.

It's awful to say it, but bitching behind each other's backs is a must in the world of flat-sharing. Otherwise you'd go mad.

The Friends may keep a few things back and share a few secrets, like Monica and Chandler's love affair, but there's never any serious, "God, she really gets on my nerves," sort of stuff.

But their humour - that I could live with. Rachel, Monica and Co are funny, but not in a juvenile, stilted, British sitcommy sort of way. They're genuinely amusing, and when you're flat-sharing, you can forgive a multitude of sins for a good laugh.

If I could live with their attractiveness and they could live with my mess, we may just get along. But it's all hypothetical anyway. I'll never live there. Yet, while it's still on the telly, I can open a bottle of wine and pretend that I do. I can pretend that I'm young and slim, that I live in Manhattan and that I look like Rachel.

When the next series - which is supposedly going to be the last - comes to an end, what will millions (and, globally, there are) of us do for escapism? Of course there will be reruns. But they won't be the same.

I'll have to pretend I am a character in another sitcom. Maybe Gimme, Gimme, Gimme. Now I really do look and behave like the flat-sharing female in that.