Every Friday, the parents, sister and nephew and I meet at Sainburys to do the shopping. I say meet, but in reality I mean that I pick the parents up, whisk them to the land of Jamie Oliver and then walk around with mother whilst father races around the aisles to try and get all the bargains before the granny wagons arrive. When we were young, he used to complain that "your mother has wondered off again!", but now in later years, I realise that it's completely opposite. He lost her and more to the point, refused point blank to admit the fact that whilst waltzing through with a trolley singing "If I were a rich man" he once again lost my mother.

Basically, my father is a drama queen.

Take today. We were in the car - he hefted himself into the passenger seat and as mother and I were talking about babies and birthdays, he turned around suddenly and

Dad - I've seen a pocket watch

Sim - But you have a pocket watch.

Dad - Yes - my fathers

Sim - But you love that pocket watch

Dad - And now I have seen a better one

Sim - Are you saying that Grandad would bequeath his son rubbish?

Dad - No. But then his pocket watch isn't an all singing all dancing without batteries. And this one is. IN GOLD.

OK - so I elaborate - he never said the "all singing all dancing" phrase. I used that to spare you the tedious ramblings, whereas I had to sit there whilst he went into detail about the specs and movements of a random gold plated pocket watch, despite the fact that I was driving. This adoration of the aforementioned pocket watch was making my eye glaze over and my brain drip slowly from my ears - something you should never ever do whilst in control of vehicle.

It wasn't the fact that my father had with magpie glee found yet another useless thing that he didn't want nor need that has got me going here. It was the fact that my father has found yet ANOTHER thing that he neither needed nor wanted that cost

OVER TWO THOUSAND POUNDS!!!

Shall I point out that my father already has a pocket watch? Or the fact that he never wears nor uses it? In fact, several years ago, he asked my brethren and I for a watch for the annual celebration of his birth. Which he has never used. It just sits there in the cabinet, unused. In fact, if you look around the lounge then you would find no less that four clocks in a room that I couldn't swing the cat in. Or a small child. Let's face it - my parents are hoarders. They are both post-war (i.e. WW I & WW II) babies so were indoctrinated that nothing should waste. This thus explains why the parents attic conversion has never been used as an actual room but more like a storage plot. Should you ever need a copy of the News of the World from 1981-1989, then give us a call. Or mega expensive vitamins that have been out of date for the last six years. There are even ceiling tiles from over ten years ago that were supposed to affixed to the conversions ceiling and have since been banned by housing regulations. Don't even get me started on the garage workshop. It's filled to the roof with wood, power tools and anything and everything that couldn't make it's way into the house. Yet more tatt that no-one wants nor needs. But never forget - it's not my father that collecting memorabilia. It's mother.

I've just watched Celebrity Big Brother and I have never cringed at live tv before.

Until tonight.

And now the world sees a new version of our parlimentary elected bodies...and the uncomfortable thing is I think that he's purred like that before.... Hand me the screwdrivers to gouge out my eyes whilst sandpapering any part of my body that needs solace from the pain.

It's cold.

The college has switched it's heating off - there's a new Principal in town and the lady's trying to save money. I don't have anything against that. Even we're trying to save money since the extravaganza known as Crimbo. Girlpants went into his piggy bank the other day and suddenly started asking me exactly how many rounds of beer I had been partaking in lately, whilst I subtlety looked at his ever growing pile Thornton's where the tree once stood.

So whilst he has chocolate to solace himself, I am wearing my new pashima like a headscarf to keep the tips of my ears from turning a lighter shade of blue. Inside the house. At least it's 5 degrees warmer here than the in the chemistry lab. It's not fun to play with acids and bases when your fingernails turn purple, the shivering is playing havoc on your measurements and everyone is wearing a lab coat over their winter ones. A walking tribe of Michelin Men playing with test tubes and bunsens.

But whilst everyone is parcelled up like roast beef on a Sunday, there is the occasional college teen who walks past me in a mini skirt and boob tube. They're the fashion victims who insist on wearing summer clothes twelve months a year. They usually don't have a scrap of fat on them, to the point that you can see their hipbones struggling to keep the denim at a decent level. My man keeps telling me that he loves a woman with curves. A succinct way of telling me that he's a tits and arse man, but it also means that he doesn't mind my annual love handles mobile central heating that keep me warm in the winter. He does however panic about his. As he keep reminding me, with men, it's not love handles.

His manly six packs have slipped.

Once upon a time last year, Girlpants and I went to Emperor Tropicals to look around. The store was hot, cramped and pokey, but they had many many fish to look at. Girlpants asked me which fishies I wanted and within an hour, we left, happily with two silver sharks, several blue neons, a bullied angel fish in need of TLC and four tiny baby clown loaches.

Within a week however, the neons had been murdered by the top floating catfish and the baby loaches had died of fright. Except one. Three weeks later, we noticed one survived. And we called him Larry.

Larry was a survivor - he had tank smarts that helped him to hide with the bigger clown loaches within the wood and the plants, far far away from the bigger fish. And he slowly grew in size and confidence, happily playing with the bigger clowns around the tank in a game of chase early in the mornings. And we always kept and eye out for him, taking extra care to make sure some choice flakes of food made it close to his hiding place.

But now I'm sad - my little Larry left us tonight to the bigger fishtank in the sky. BUt what a better and bigger fishtank it will be...

Night night Larry. Every time I look at the orchid I buried you under, I'll think of you.

I did have a grand plan.

• Finish course
• Get job
• Get life
• Start Masters

But with the amount of work they have doled out within one week, am now radically rethinking whether to

• Finish course (as they will charge me beer tokens if I don't)
• Get job
• Get life
• Find that the job market out there is dire and think of plan B
• Actually start to contemplate if Mini Me's may not be such a bad idea despite the sanctity of the womb.

I now have three research projects (one ongoing) and five assignments to complete by Febuary. Hopeless? Maybe. But Girlpants has offered to wear his official Girlpants outfit (tights included) to cheer me up. So there is some laughter and joy at the end of the day. Right after I psychologically question him about his choice of attire. And ask him to get out of my tights...

But extremely talkative after taking two of Girlpants colleagues on a magical mystery tour of the mouth of Ply so they could dwell on the areas in which they would like to buy a house. Needless to say that they are now extremely disillusioned - so much so that we invited them for dinner where Girlpants bollocked me for how much alcohol I was pouring into the tiramasu (thats right people! made from scratch!) and so I solaced myself with a LIIT. Needless to say, the drinking carried on throughout the evening.

My sister made a comment this morning - apparently, when I'm drunk, you can't shut me up. I call friends and family from miles around and talk about generic dribble that only people that truly love me can nod to and pretend to understand. And last night, I was dribbling for three hours straight. I called the mother-in-law, both sisters, my mother and by a sheer chance, managed to misdial Germany (hello Ed!) which is a slight blessing given our last phonebill.

I think that I may start ribena month early this year. Right after I cut my head off.

I only turned over for a laugh but both Girlpants and I are horribly horribly addicted already. Especially seeing the HUGE welcome Michael got.

I sense a TiVo season pass coming up. Admittedly we are very very sad.