Easter Day 2018

It's all about the chocolate. I'm sorry if that offends some. It's always been about the chocolate in our house. I go months without so much as a sniff of a Mars bar and then when Easter falls and chocolate in all its tantalising forms is brought into the house, I don't hold back. I throw myself with Bacchanalian frenzy at it.
This year Carrot cake truffles were the mere curtain raiser to a chocolate-fest that finally ground to a halt this afternoon when we had exhausted all supplies. So I ploughed into the understairs cupboard, only to return half an hour later, sweaty, but triumphant, brandishing a still-in-date packet of Jaffa cakes. Two packets, in fact: his and hers. No squabbling.
So I am sitting here like a bloated little pot-belly, ruing the excess.
We are not with family, unusually today. One half has buggered off to the Cotswolds, and the other half are laid up with nasty colds. So here we are this Easter day, suffering from a glut of chocolate and Sunday newspapers, but smiling at the answer almost eight year old Joseph wrote in his homework on Easter:
Question: "Why might Jesus's disciples have been surprised by Jesus washing their feet on Maundy Thursday?"
Answer: "It might have surprised them because you wash your hands not your feet when you eat."
This is to demonstrate that we're not all heathens.

And inches on my hips....