I know, I know. I shouldn’t overindulge, but I love chocolate. Just thinking about a bar makes me break out in a cold sweat.
I was blessed in having my grandmother, Sarah, live with us. A highlight was pension day when she’d arrive home with cakes and chocolate. As I grew older my addiction grew. At one point I was recovering from an operation and off solid food because of stitches to my mouth. Unfortunately, my grandmother sent a bag full of chocolate bars up for the patient and there was nothing for it but for me to scoff the lot even though the pain was excrutiating.
Sarah always had chocolate stored away in her cupboard so I was never short of supplies. I became notorious for one incident when my two nieces called to the house one day and, rather than share my chocolate, I gave them money instead to go to the shop. Terrible.
The high point for me is Easter, and especially so when the kids were smaller. I think Daire got nine one year, and while I volunteered to polish off a few Trish decided the kids should donate them to less privileged kids. I was so obsessed I resented losing my stash. I was blessed for a time when Sarah Jane only wanted white chocolate, which meant I did rather well. Unfortunately, she grew out of that. Ah well.
Of course Trish buys me an Easter Egg every year. I’m not particularly fussy about the size or product – Mars, Kit Kat, whatever. But God help her if she forgets. I think we came close to divorce the year she bought my precious Egg, only to leave it behind in the trolley while putting the shopping in the car. I was not impressed.
A coupe of weeks ago we were passing through Debenhams and there was this fine Milk Tray Egg reduced to €9.99 which she bought on the spot. Mmmmm. Inside were two large bars of chocolate which made the thought of eating it all the more tempting. Instead we left it in the sitting room until next Sunday. Bad idea. I took to visiting the room most days to gaze in awe at the packaging and the hint of promise behind the tinfoil. I fantasised a million times about unwrapping that paper and cracking the Egg before gorging myself on the chocolate shell, but I’m better than that. No chance of me eating it before Easter. I have perfect self control. I’d just will myself not to eat it.
Last week, however, disaster struck. I happened to glance at the Egg and in a moment of weakness grabbed it from the floor and ran into the dining room. There in a moment of pure chocolate lust I ripped off that protective packaging, put the bars in the fridge and took the rugby-sized Egg over to the table where I dropped it from a height. Rather cleverly I had ensured it remained in the tinfoil so that the broken chocolate didn’t spill out, then I proceeded to eat the whole lot, although in the spirit of generosity I gave Trish a (small) piece. As for the bars, they’re gone too. Slurp, slurp.
Now, if you don’t mind, I’m off to find a small Egg to fill the gap. After all, Easter Sunday is just days away.