Puffles

Little OCD has built up a collection of ten puffles on Club Penguin. I tell him it's too much. He says it's better to have more then you don't get so attached. Until now he has had just two puffles. They have been quite over-indulged. One has his own dancefloor. I think with 10 he's biting off more than he can chew, what with the feeding and everything.

He appears, blinking, in the kitchen. I'm thrilled that he has torn himself away from the computer. With a carefully managed reintroduction to daylight and human interaction he could go on to lead a normal life.

"I'm banned. For trying to use the wrog password. For 72 hours. That's 72 times three thousand and six hundred seconds."

We have this thing about breaking all timed events into seconds, which can then be drummed out on the side of the bath with a triceratops before bed. So far the compulsion has been limited to the reconstruction of , say, boiling an egg or Pass Out by Tinie Tempah. I'm worried.

"What will happen to your puffles? Can someone else look after them for you?"

"No they'll die. I'm going next door can I have a bag of crisps?"