I take chocolate very seriously.
I’ve had birthdays where my presents amount to a couple of kilos of chocolate. They don’t last long, and they don’t get shared. I am the worst sharer of chocolate I have ever known. When my husband and I first started dating, a friend of mine saw me give him a (very small) piece of my stash.
“Wow. She really likes you.”
In my defence, I never had a chance. My father is a shocking chocoholic. He always had a good sized block of the stuff in the kitchen, and after eating some he’d mark which row he was up to. If anyone dared take some, he would know in an instant. My problem is I can’t eat some and leave the rest – once I start I truly cannot stop.
I like the idea of buying a small amount of the very best chocolate I can afford, and enjoying it slowly. But for me that’s exactly what it is: an idea.
This presents a couple of problems in our house. Now I have promised my husband this blog won’t be about our family life, and it won’t, but I will say my chocolate problem reared its ugly head this afternoon. We’d had the most perfect Sunday morning with friends at Fulham Palace – London on a sunny day is truly hard to beat (I must be settling in as I no longer take the sun for granted). I got home feeling like I’d had a mini holiday. This was shortlived when I realised my husband had some chocolate hidden so it would last more than one day. I mean, howdarehehidechocolatefromme????
So began the begging, pleading and general renouncing of any shame I might have once had. It went on for ages before he pointed out that this is exactly what our 3 year does.
Oh, the shame.
So no chocolate for me for the week, but it does mean I can have extra beer. Every cloud…