Tomato? Or Triffid?

I am a bit rubbish with plants. Tis a fact. Since moving into our flat at the end of January, I've killed three mint plants. Three! Yes, dear readers, I am a mint murderer.

Also, I have watched the depressing demise of two rosemary plants and two basils. To be fair, the second basil was doing really really well, like a small Italian-scented bush, until it was infested by some tiny and horrid beasties. I really can't be blamed for beasties, can I?

Anyway, it was with some trepidation that I purchased a baby tomato plant, but six inches high. I lovingly repotted it, sat back and waited for it to die. But no! A miracle! It grew! And then grew some more. And kept growing and growing. My mother instructed me to stop it growing by pinching off the top when it got to a certain height, but giddy with excitement that I had finally made a plant happy and could now one day progress to a kitten (please can I have a kitten?), I couldn't quite bring myself to squash its ambition.

And now it looks like this...

I have now tried to pinch off the top so it doesn't grow any more, but it is waving rude gestures in my direction and sprouting new bits all over the place.

If you don't hear from me again, the tomato plant has probably eaten us and it shall be known that mum was right...