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.

Fish Aid.

After a few days at home of pampering, unpacking and peas (yuck) I feel better enough to try and get some creativity onto the tinternet. Living with my parents, whilst lovely in the sense that I always have company and delicious food :) is also a complete bummer as it means I have chores to do (I feel a decade younger) and it's a bloody long trek to get to work.

The good thing is that my father knows considerably more about my fish than I do. As of late, Brain has been decidedly daft and quiet. He tends to sit on the gravel near the pump and then gets stuck, only re-emerging (after a hillarious wiggle of his fat little tummy) for food. We've tried everything- there were some concerns that their droopy dorsal fins were down to the driftwood and supposed chemicals it was leaking into the water, (which ended in me sucking up pooey water into a tube and siphoning it into a bucket at 7:30 in the morning. Joys.) or even the large white stone giving off alkaline. After researching on the net, I came accross some peculiar, but deeply amusing advice: Feed the fish peas.

We debated as to whether they should be frozen, chopped up, pureed etc etc, but decided on defrosted, chopped up plain old peas. Hubert at first was a little bemused by the strange green globules floating in the water, but gave them a hearty go. Brain however, after wearily wafting himself out from under the greenery near the pump, gulped them down in one go. (Quite a feat for such a little fat blobby fish.) Unfortunately, despite discovering that peas are good to go in the fish's opinion, they haven't really made Brain more sparky.

Another suggestion is that the pump is too violent for my fat friend. Hubert seems fine by it, but then again, Brain, being a Black Moor, looks as though swimming is ten times the effort. Whereas Hubert is graceful and elegant, streaming through the water as if he had little teeny ice skates on and a teeny weeny tutu, Brain just waddles. Bless him to bits, he wriggles and waddles and splutters his way accross the tank, only for the pumped out water to shove him back to where he came from. We've tried pointing the tube into the side of the tank but to no avail, Brain is just, well, useless.

Does any one have any suggestions as to what I can do to make them all happy and bouncy?

Also, apologies to those of you who aren't that eager about fish. I will find something more interesting to write about in my next post. Probably about my first time clubbing this evening after about a year; there are bound to be some mishaps on such an excursion!

Some sad news.

As the title suggests, this will not be neither bouncy, nor a joyful post. As Lemony Snicket (of the Series of Unfortunate Events.. series) says, please do not continue if you want a happy ending.

My life as of late has been as unfortunate as the unfortunate tale in a Series of Unfortunate Events. The most humungous unfortunosity is that Mr Peas and I have split. Done a runner. Broken up. Seperated.

It is very true that when you are down, life likes to give you a damn good kick in your non existant balls.

This month has been horrible. (And unfortunate) In a few years time when I am over the heart wrenching pain that is my May, I will pretend this month never happened. Other monstrous occurances are that my landlady did a surpise visit to my house when she knew I was away. Of course, I had not tidied up, and the black holes in the fireplace and missing blind in the kitchen caused some concern. After recieving a few threatening calls, I decided to cut my losses and leave the property. I'm now residing at my mums where I can nurse myself back to my usual frolicking self. Unfortunately, I owe a months rent. As I have suggested, the landlady can take the deposit which she illegally kept herself and accept it as rent. She suggested that she take me to court.

Whippeeeee I say!

The most unfortunate of all is that after a stressful couple of months, I was on holiday when this all kicked off. Fan-tas-tic. Therefore my only holiday this year; a weekend in Cambridge, was pretty much ruined. I still had a jolly marvellous time and came back feeling refreshed, but things are bloody hard at the moment and I can't really see the end of the tunnel. It's there, and I'm aware that in a month or so I will be skipping around and free, but right now it feels as if I'm walking through sludge carrying Pavoroti on my back.

On a plus note; I have been spurred on to buy a new fish tank for my lovelies, tame my frizzy, god awful hair, sort out my bad boy eyebrows, and get my nose pierced. The hair do and eyebrows will be happening soon, the nose has been banned by my mother until I have exited her residence. (She is horrified at the thought of all the imaginary goop and blood and pus that occures after such a gigantic procedure.) Living with my parents is actually lovely and just what I needed. I feel very looked after and spoilt and am very grateful to them for their support.

All in all, I can't wait for the end of May. Whether you will be hearing much of me in the meantime is dubious, but I will be back as my usual self, I promise.

Of birthdays, bees and Brand.

So, I won a poetry competition the other night. What was even better, was that due to my winning, I got to dress up as a bumble bee and lead a procession of other bumble bee costume wearers, presumably all of whom were also competition winners.
Unfortunately, during our fantastic festival, an extremely pregnant Russell Brand decided to attack both the audience and precession participants. It all ended in everyone hiding in the woods, (I had somehow lost the costume which is a damn shame) shooting at him in what appeared to be World War 3. Odd really.

Last Friday was my birthday. Not just any birthday. It was my 21st. I am not officially 21. As always, I don't feel any older, but the amount of people who have been commenting on this fact, I feel I should feel responsible and old.

Sadly, my 21st was not as I had hoped. Since around Christmas, I had been planning a 99 red balloon party (copying that of the one in Scrubs, only with more balloons) with jelly, and ice cream and costumes. However, most of my friends are at Uni, or hate me. So that meant no party.

On top of which, my sister had a car crash (which thank fully ended in no injury on her part, aside from her poor car, so I can moan) it rained aaaallllll day, and ended in me having a shouting match (quite unlike me) with an extremely racist drunk man who proclaimed that all immigrants should be sterilised. After walking up to him and calling him a not very nice name (again, totally unlike me, and cowardly done, just as the bus pulled into my stop) he stood up and called me:

a fat cunt.

Boy, was my birthday good.

To my delight however, the day was saved by a rather heroic mr peas who supplied me with lots of lovely presents, including a fluffy plastic tiara and a big 21 badge. (Which, presumably the ignorant sod on the bus failed to notice.) He also bought me:

• a plaster animal making kit thing
• a plaster paint your own mask kit thing
• Coraline in a graphic novel (amazing incidentally)
• a bag of drumsticks
• a bag of vimto lollies
• a bag of egg jellies
• a bag of flying saucers
• a pretty, pink, glittery address book and note pad
  and a tiara.

To go into the Coraline book in more detail, we saw Coraline on Wednesday in 3D, and it is now in my top 5 films. I want to name my child (regardless of gender or existence), Coraline. The graphic novel is equally stupendous and looks like this:























FAB.

Also, I discovered, after years of falsely thinking that drumsticks are rhubarb and cream flavoured- they are actually raspberry and milk flavour. I kid you not.

Ode to a new fish

After the death of poor William, I decided the tank needed a sprucing, so yesterday, despite feeling a tad hungover, Mr Peas and I trekked to the nearest decent pet store.

Inevitably, I fell in love with a fish.

He is a beautiful black moor and has hillarious bulging eyes and a stunning bronze tint.

(This is not actually him. He's not photogenic enough but this one seems to be.)

Hubert loves him too, which is good news. I also bought a filter and some new shiny plants. Despite Mr Peas protests, I put them next to the tele. It means the TV is now apt to cutting out or going crazy, but they look pretty :)

The unfortunate truth is that we have no name for Mr anonymous-bulgy-eye fish. After considering Hank, Milky, Bob, or a very rude word for a person with dark skin (Mr Peas.) At the moment, Brains is looking like a particulary fab name, but then I'd like to change Hubert's name to Pinky. Ahhh, the dilemma!

Any ideas?