T**** Addict

My boyfriend is an addict.  It is a relief to get it out in the open at last, it has been such a weight on my mind. 

The Yorkshire Pudding (as I like to call him) is perfect in every other way - in my eyes at least - but when it comes to a certain supermarket he is off the rails. 

Living right next to a huge, brand-spanking-new 24-hour store has its advantages, but every night we find ourselves there, scouring the discount isle for all the must-haves that we did not know we needed.  What a minefield, getting past the protruding elbows and witty banter each customer uses to mask the undignified scramble that is taking place; everyone pushing and shoving to ensure they get their hands on a bargain. 

As in War of the Roses (me playing Kathleen Turner next to his Michael Douglas), The Yorkshire Pudding is dragging me down with him.  I follow him more and more regularly, eager to see what goodies are in store.  We have moved from the food section and branched out to clothing and household items.  Where else can you buy a Christmas tree for £2.50?   It was such a good deal we put ours up, fully decorated, in mid-November. 

Rock bottom: the turning point for every addict. 

Mine came last weekend.  It had been a big Saturday night, the empty bottles strewn across the bedroom floor on Sunday morning were testament of that.  Of course our first thought was to the supermarket and the carb-riddled delights which would help us through our hangover. 

We made it as far as the in-store cafe before we came to a stop, tempted by all the cakes and steaming cups of tea.  There we sat for the next hour, just eating.  Somewhere during my second cream scone I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror; a sad shell of the lively girl I used to be when my life did not revolve around the supermarket.  My own flat with kitchen was across one street and up one flight of stairs, fully equipped to make anything our stomachs could require.  We were incapable of buying the necessary ingredients; of moving from this wonderful haven.  And we were frittering away £'s at a time for the privilege of mediocre service.

It is tenacious love hate relationship, but I have had a moment of clarity.  Don't worry guys, I'm getting help.  It's the Yorkshire Pudding I'm worried about.