I’ve got smears of chocolate wiped on my jeans, chocolate under my nails, I’ve spent the last few days with fingers tacky from the sweet kiss of chocolate. Is this because I have been creating charming chocolate eggs with my children? Baking Easter chocolate cake for the family?

Um.

No.

Good Friday was not a Good Friday for me. It was the Hot Cross Buns that did it. Rob bought some home, still warm from the bakery. Their cinnamon-scented siren call was impossible to resist. After a short, but intense, struggle with Rob, I managed to pinch the lion’s share and threw my low-carbed good intentions out of the window. There they lay, in all their protein-laden, salad-garnished glory, ignored with determination for the next five days. FIVE DAYS!

Once my head was in the trough there was no stopping me. After demolishing the Apple and Cinnamon children of the devil, I started sniffing around the house. Crumbs still clinging to my lips, butter smeared down my chin. Rob looked at me nervously, he’d seen me like this before. It didn’t end well then, either.

He suggested a light salad and omelette for lunch. Ha! Like that was going to happen.  I kept prowling through cupboards and scouring the fridge. Stupid diet-obsessed-protein-buying-salad-loving-past-me! There was NOTHING to be found that even closely resembled a treat.

Suddenly I spied the bread bin. My eyes lit up. TOAST! The perfect snack. Three slices later a butter/marmalade/marmite frenzy, I was briefly satiated. I flopped on the sofa and had a stern word with myself. ‘You’ve come so far’, I said. ‘You have to be careful as you have no scales here,’ I continued. ‘No carbs tomorrow,’ I resolved.

Feeling cheered and restored, I took Dog out for a walk and immediately was drenched to the skin. It was hammering with rain. Dog kept turning round as if to say, ‘are you sure you want to go out in this?’ But at least I wasn’t eating anything.

We had to buy building materials so a trip to Wickes was planned. This is Rob’s spiritual home. (Mine is any Marks and Spencer’s Food Hall.)

Unfortunately, we had to take the children with us and they insisted on being fed. Once the plaster board and other mysterious bits and pieces were purchased, the children ground to halt outside a burger place and refused to move until we stuffed them full of junk food.

Well it would have been rude not to join them, so my new resolve faltered, and I hoovered up a giant burger and a bag full of chips. I was proud to resist ordering the ridiculous milkshakes, but managed to drink quite a lot of Son’s discarded one before Rob wrestled it away and threw it in the bin.

By the time I went to bed I was feeling the worse for wear. Not because of wine, this time, but because of the carb melt down. After the shame of the burger joint, the day was completed with fresh scones with clotted cream and jam. Damn you, bakers!

Saturday was no better. Without telling me, Rob had purchased a box of chocolates so big he could hardly get them through the door. Instantly my ‘no carbs Saturday’ plan went out the window. ‘I never remember to get you an Easter Egg,’ he said, ‘and you always get me one, so I got you these to make up for fifteen years of no Easter eggs.’

Bless him!

If Hot Cross Buns are my weed, then Chocolate is my crack cocaine. That was it. No going back now. Once sweet Mistress Chocolate and I were blissfully reunited, I knew the affair would be heady, overwhelming and passionate – but it couldn’t last. The knowledge this couldn’t, shouldn’t, mustn’t last, added an extra thrill.

The next day was Easter Sunday and all I can remember is a sweet, chocolaty blur. Daughter doesn’t like chocolate so handed me two whole Easter eggs. TWO! They didn’t last long. Next! Two wispa bars and the accompanying egg vanishes down my gullet. Son doesn’t want his third egg, hands it over to me. GONE IN SECONDS!

It was yesterday I realised this had to stop. I was standing in Sainsbury’s eyeing row upon row of discounted eggs. Reduced from £8 an Egg to £2.50!

‘You could buy ten of them,’ the junkie whispered inside my head. ‘You could take them all home. Rob won’t notice. You could smuggle them in under your jumper and hide them in the cupboard… Go on… you might as well. You’ve eaten like a rabid walker all weekend… You’ve ruined yourself now… Look,’ the voice hissed in delight, ‘the creme egg Easter eggs are only £2 and see how big they are!’

I started to sweat. ‘I can’t do it, man,’ I replied. ‘I’ve got to get off the chocolate. It’s not good for me…’

‘Come on…’ the devil went on. ‘How about just three of the best ones?’

I really had the shakes now. I shook my head. ‘No. I can’t. I’ve got to think of the kids. They need me. Rob needs me.’

Blindly, I stumbled into the salad aisle. I grabbed whatever I could find: Cucumbers, tomatoes, broccoli, bags of salad leaves. A pack of pork scratchings. Anything to silence that sweet, sweet call of the discounted creme eggs and the Kit Kit specials.

So now it’s Wednesday. I have a training session booked this afternoon and rather than dreading it, I can’t wait to get in there and burn off the sugar that’s lacquering my arteries. The last few days have had a big impact on my fitbit stats. My sleep has been terrible – I can see lots of times when I woke up in the night. I’ve had awful indigestion and my resting heart rate has gone up by seven!

I haven’t mentioned we had lovely friends and family round and so the weekend wasn’t all bad. Lots and lots of laughter, too much wine, and I got a bit sweary – always a bad sign – but beneath it has been the thread of chocolate indulgence.

Rob’s box of chocolates are still on the high shelf. I managed to stop myself breaking through to the second layer. But it wasn’t easy.

THIS IS WHY WE CANNOT HAVE CHOCOLATE IN THE HOUSE!

The trouble with food addiction is that it is not like drug addiction or alcoholism. You can’t just stop buying food. Imagine the furore if you saw an advert with a woman jacking herself up with heroin, the camera zooming in on her blissed out face. There would be outrage. So how come it’s OK to do it with chocolate? I’m looking at you Galaxy Chocolate advertisers.

OK, so chocolate isn’t illegal and heroin is, but you get my point.

I need to stop myself associating junk food with treats. Rob enjoys his food but sees it as nice fuel, not a reward. That’s why he’s only fluctuated three pounds since we married in 2003, the skinny bastard.

Oh well. Onward and upwards I suppose.

The good news is I have bought a wig! I was inspired by Catherine over at Atypical 60 (She’s great, you should check her out). She has a huge collection of wigs and looks wonderful in them. I am now of an age where my hair looks awful unless it’s blow dried. If you know The Walking Dead, my hair looks like Eugene’s if left unattended.

Over the years I’ve lost so much hair at the front unless I have it carefully blow dried forward it just looks like this! A balding mullet. Yuk. So seeing how lovely Catherine looks in hers I’m going to give it a whirl. As she points out, they are brilliant when you are on holiday and you swim a lot and your hair just looks blah… Chuck a wig on it!

I’m going to email her when I first try it on to get an expert review. I’ll let you know how I get on.

Final thought, I have LOVED the last few episodes of The Walking Dead. I have been chatting with Claudette over at Writer of Words and I know she found the episode where everyone turns and bites each other – WITHOUT WAKING ANYONE UP! – very frustrating. (It really was – FFS how come nobody heard one of them falling down the stairs?) but the last one was great, and featured a bit more of my hero Daryl Dixon. Let’s hope we see more of him in the last few episodes. In fact, here’s a picture of the lovely Norman to brighten your day. He’s better than chocolate.

Although.

What about Daryl AND chocolate?

 

What about you? What are your triggers? What can’t you have in the house? I’d love to know!