Would you believe me if I told that you I didn't eat chocolate very often?

Chocolate. So many people, hopped-up on the sweet, mythical clay. Augustus Gloops, pulled back from the brink, now grown up. I've seen them, slumped on sofas, coming down from the high of a cacao spree. Twitching like dope fiends. Some go for the cheap stuff - get that slant-caffeine into the bloodstream, quick. For others, it is far more serious: they refer to their dealers as Chocolatiers; they put trays of exquisite bronze globes on a par with symphonies due to the practitioner's mastery of the ingredients - all in accord, rising to a crescendo of flavour once placed on the tongue.

I knew someone who used to put packets of chocolate buttons on the radiator, and when it had begun to wobble she would cut the corner, tilt with glee, and drink the contents. I would sit and watch, amused, sipping tea, smoking umpteen cigarettes, thinking, 'You've got a problem.'

On Sunday, when the day draws to a close, there will be thousands of giddy kids, overfull with cut-price, oversized chocolate eggs.

And the parents will be left with carpets of foil and walls of tiny eyes, fizzing with mischief.