Mango madness is without doubt a sickness, curable only by removing oneself from the source. We're like addicts hanging for the next fix, eyes darting surreptitiously at the worryingly decreasing pile of lush fruit on the dining table. I just have to duck outside to the cockpit and my partner in crime John, has sliced open another one and sucked it dry before I'm at the top of the companionway steps. No matter how much he tries to deny his problem, the evidence is as clear as the sweet sticky juice running down his chin and through his chest hairs. Chunky hunks of flesh drool from his lips as he hungrily slurps at the dangerously addictive flesh. This is an illness that has no limitations, it knows no bounds. It has no age or gender discrimination. We have both succumbed heavily to the madness, and on close inspection of our teeth, both can be seen with the telltale stringy orange fibres hanging from our gums.