Another one bites the dust.

Bye bye Brain.

Just call me a fish murderer. I have no idea how I do it.

Addictions.

There are many addictions in this world.

The most common being nicotine addictions, food addictions, kleptomania, drug addiction, alcohol addiction yadda yadda yadda.

What most people don't realise (unluckily for them) is that it's not always usual things people are addicted to. In fact, some philopsophers argue that to have "usual" addictions, you must also have "unusual" addictions.

That is the case for my mother.

My mother is addicted to tupperware.

Now please do not misunderstand my hatred for tupperware and my concern for my mother's addiction. It is not that I do not fully accept that tupperware is a fantastic creation. The thought of being able to lock up a half eaten apple inside a see through plastic prison and lock it inside a fridge for days upon end, and jeer at it through the walls until it is taken out, just as fresh as when it was locked up, and eaten is just amazing.


Mrs T Ware really outdid herself on this little creation.

What really ticks me off with regards to tupperware is the sheer amount my mother has. In fact, out of the ten particularly large cupboards, my mother has dedicated one of them to tupperware. Thats one tenth of her kitchen solely set aside for the purpose of storing her addiction.

Everything, from cheese to sundried tomatoes is stored in a tupperware box. If you stand still long enough, she will collect your body parts and store them in her little plastic boxes. I was slightly worried before I moved in that I would be sleeping in a plastic coffin. Thank fully, there is still space in my room for my bed. The tupperware hasnt gone quite that far.... yet.

It has now become perfectly normal to recieve a telephone call at work from my mummy who explains in depth her latest tupperware collection. She has a particular fondness for lids that click on either side.

Oh yes, there are even different types of lids.

Unfortunately for me, these tupperware boxes have to be neatly stacked into the cupboard. And for the life of me, no matter how much the company guarantees that all boxes are stackable, one neatly inside another, can I get the blighters into the cupboard. My mother seems to have learnt the knack, but inevitably, when I open that cupboard (Also, inconveniently located just above my head height) I am showered in plastic missiles.

The damned things also have lids. On purchasing a particularly wonderful (Or so I'm told) tupperware collection, my father and my sister's partner (Being ridiculously tall) decided to hide said lids on the tops of the cupboards. My mother, being as equally tiny as myself hunted high and low for the damn things. Feeling deeply distressed, she eventually turned to my father for help, and it was at this point, we truly realised the extent of her addiction.

Unfortunately (for us, and fortunately for all evil tupperware manufacturers world wide) there is no AA for Tupperware fanatics. There is no where to turn to when Tupperware takes over your lives. And so it has been left to myself and my family to pick up the plastic pieces (gerrit?) that have become our everyday lives. I have even started to act enthusiastically when a new brand is thrust under my nose.

If you happen to know of anyone with a similar affliction, feel free to contact me. I understand your plight and the pain that tupperware causes in a normal, everyday family. We can all work through this together.

Mums in clubs.

So I promised to let you know how my evening of fun and frivolity on Friday went.

The booze was fab, the music was fab, the clubs were fab (Fan Club was ok..) and the men were fab.

Obviously after the break up with Mr Peas (Now known as Steve.) I haven't really been able to look at men, most of them grow his gangly knees and balding head. But despite my dread of the typical "I'm so drunk, and you look hot in my paralitic, so let me drag you back to mine so I can f**k you like rabbits do before passing out and drooling all over your nose." chat up lines, I felt fairly safe.

That was until "LEE" came along.

Unfortunately for you, I cannot reproduce "LEE"'s accent via the wonderful world wide web. This story would be a helluva lot funnier if I could. I shall therefore call him "LEE" and you have to imagine that I am saying this in a deep voice, whilst thrusting my bottom jaw forward and pumping my shoulders in what I presume to be a masculine manner.

"LEE", after squishing up next to me on the mouldy seat informed me that he is a labourman from Wigston. For anyone who knows Wigston, you will be aware that once you're born in Wigston, you invariably leave. And then you marry your sister, or your father.

I'm pretty sure they're not picky.

I'm guessing you're already beginning to drool over "LEE." I know I was at this stage. "Take me now" popped into my head on more than one occasion, and it was only after clamping my lips firmly shut that I held back from thrusting my magnificent breastage into his hands.

The hottest moment for me however, was when his mum (That's right folks, plus 18 club, loud bangy music, drugs, alcohol and sex-HIS MUM) brought him over a pint, smiled at me and left.

And the moral of the story guys and gals, is if you don't want to attract the "LEE"'s of this world.. don't pull this face...

...as apparently this indicates that you're into the Mum Action.

I'm not.

On other notes, my fish have white spot (yippee) so that is why they have been so miserable. I am treating them with salt in the vague hope that it will kick the parasite's ass.

I am also leaving Leicester next weekend to return to the sunny Swanage for the summer.

And I have had the beasts that were my eyebrows finally tamed this afternoon. You know it's bad when the beautician brings in all her colleagues to have a good gawp. Damn right.