Nothing beats a chocolate Easter bunny for breakfast on a Sunday. I should never have cracked that bit of foil over the ears because it set off an irreversible chain reaction of gluttony, slobbering and piggery that’s making me feel sick. Before I knew it I was breaking pieces off the head, the shoulders . . . and well, you know, the rest. Easter chocolate is often the worst quality, tasting like a mouth full of brown chemicals melted together with sugary syrup that makes your stomach rebel, your teeth ache and fills your brain with shame. And now I’m off to Easter brunch at a friend’s place where further sinful bounty awaits. Somehow I should feel full but no such luck. My mouth waters just thinking about the French toast strata with pecans and maple syrup, the bacon, the bowls of little pastel-coloured chocolate eggs, the liquor-soaked fruit, the fizzy drinks, the . . . excuse me . . . gotta run! Happy Easter!