Dan Morris: An egg-cellent time to be alive

I’ve never been a big chocolate guy, not really anyway. Though I do sometimes wonder if this was how I trained myself to be simply due the lack of a chance at developing a taste for the stuff.

The last time I genuinely remember eating a genuine Easter egg (and thanks for the wine by the way, Old Man) I was about 14 years old.

My mum – a self-confessed chocoholic in her day, God rest her soul – always made an annual point of emptying the shelves in Thorntons with ruthless abandon, turning the dining room at the family pile into a pirate’s hoard of confectionery. 

The official line she always gave was that at least two of the 10 trillion eggs clustered on the table were for my father and me, yet strangely these always seemed to be the first ones she’d guzzle down come the day of resurrection itself.

Some 23 years ago I managed to taste the sweet and smooth nectar of a finely fashioned white chocolate orb, yet in the two decades that followed, my speed to the stash was always thwarted by my mother’s, and only a fool would dare take a chance at trapping off with an ‘unassigned’ egg from among the dragon’s booty.

It would have been akin to Indiana Jones picking the wrong Holy Grail, and over the years I’d seen my mother kill for a lot less.