A week ago I fell for the ad on the telly – 2 Easter eggs for the price of one, and planning ahead – a rare event I went off and bought a shed load for nieces, nephews, friends, Romans and countrymen. Having distributed most there were 4 in the house at 10.55pm Thursday night. There are now 3.
I fell by the wayside about 11pm last night. Long day, low blood sugar, hormones flying and a big sparkly chocolate egg winking at me from the IKEA carrier bag in the hall. Eat me . Eat me. It willed from it’s hiding place.
Scowling at it I walked away and yet even when in the kitchen toying with a satsuma I could hear it’s doleful cry. I’m creamy, chocolatey and wonderful to stuff into your chops. Hey come on. Where’s the wild renegade face stuffer of old it goaded, the one who would rip open a family bag of Revels, toast them on a slab of homemade bread and down it in a oner?
That wasn’t me! I heard myself answer, knowing I was lying. It was. The egg was right. Had I really become that rather sad person, that staying in on a Thursday night, pathetic satsuma stroker? The sort of fruit eater I would have scoffed at – and how (and with what?) – in the past. Hell the No. 36 bus might take me out tomorrow I rationalised.
So stomping purposefully into the hall I opened the bag roughly plucking out the big cardboard box of beautifully packaged giant Cadbury Mini egg. Ripping into it, my heart thumped, the egg fell out, grabbing it, tearing off the sparkly wrap I groaned as I snapped it in two, the noise of that thick milk chocolate dense and decadent was coming my way.
20 minutes later, still in the hall, feeling sick. The deed was done. The egg was gone. The gut was burbling. If I was a dog I’d be dead. Poisoned. Still it was bloody worth it.
Not exactly a role model. More a horrible warning.