Go on, you know you want to...

There's chocolate in the house.


And what's worse, I know where it is.


This is a potentially disastrous situation. Husband left for Russia this morning, so I have been home alone with the Boys all day, with only a diet coke as a treat for solace and consolation. Consequently there's a little voice in my head telling me how good I've been, reminding me that he's gone until Wednesday evening, and pointing out that even should I weaken and consume some (oh, alright, all) of it, I can replace it and no-one will be any the wiser. Except my waistband, of course. Oh yes, and a certain little African Bird who apparantly loves my consuming sugar and will reappear the moment I do.

But even so, I can hear the siren voice of the chocolate calling me from the top of the fridge as I sit here trying to ignore it.


Oh yes. It's in the fridge. That means it's The Good Stuff.


Normally I wouldn't be foolish enough to have such temptation in the house, but we went to Selfridges on Thursday morning. It was ostensibly a trip to the Oxford Street John Lewis to pick out some housey-housey stuff for long-overdue furniture renovations, with a only a 5 minute side-trip to the Shrine of Shopping for Husband to stock up on coffee for his Nespresso machine.

However.... once it had taken him 20 minutes to make the purchase of what had originally been planned as two cartridges of coffee pods and ended up as rather more than that (think presentation display box of every variant of coffee under the sun), we had no time left to schlep down to JL.

(I wouldn't mind, but I don't even drink coffee. This, by the way, is why I call it 'Husband's Nespresso machine', which he purchased in a moment of extreme stress shortly after he got the bad news about his job. He calls it a 'money-saving device', and claims it will stop him from being forced to consume his body-weight in coffee at one of the 4 Starbucks outlets situated less than 5 minutes walk from us at all points on the compass. I call it 'retail therapy', and wonder what's wrong with the machine we already had. But whatever, if it keeps him happy, I am prepared to give up precious counter space in the kitchen.)

So anyway, there we were, standing in Selfridges with time to kill and I couldn't help myself. I had to check out the food hall. And on the way there, we happened to pass the Leonidas stand. For the uninitiated amongst us, I've included a link, but think Belgian chocolate, praline, deliciousness and extreme opportunities for over-indulgence and weight gain. (It's not quite as good as Rococo, but it will do...)

I can't help it. If it's chocolate, and expensive, I'm addicted.

But only if it's in the house. I am capable of walking past these high-end outlets without so much as a second glance - well, maybe without so much as a third glance - but then Husband pointed out that it's Easter shortly. And also that his mother loves this brand and will need a pay-off for looking after the boys for us next weekend when he and I scoot off for our illicit weekend away (hurrah!). It made perfect sense to stock up whilst we were there, he said.

Before I knew it, I found myself unwillingly dragged to the holy of holies. Doesn't he know what this stuff does to me?

Thankfully, we were unable to buy any eggs for the Boys due to issues with nuts (and let's face it, what 2 or 4 year old wouldn't really prefer a £2.99 milk chocolate Thomas the Tank Engine egg from Marks and Spencers - guaranteed nut free - over a plain, boring, unlicensed, totally delicious - oops, getting carried away again - one from Leonidas, Prestat or Rococo?), but we did come away with a box of chocolates for Mother in Law, and - crucially - 2 bags of mini-chocolate praline eggs 'just in case' we needed to give them as presents at Easter.

Presents? At Easter?

If they make it to Good Friday it will only be because I have suffered a blow to the head and have forgotten what the yellow Selfridges bag tucked so obtrusively on the top shelf of the fridge contains....

I would like to think that I could rely on some vestige of willpower to see me through, but with Husband out of the country and sugar levels low following a restricted diet in an attempt to cut out visits from the Bird, resistance is low.

Or should I say futile?

Add to this the fact that we dropped Husband at the airport mid-morning. Picture perfect as it was, this is not a mistake I'm going to repeat. Whilst Boy #1 got the point that Papa was only away for a few days, Boy #2 (at only just 2 years old), didn't. Airports, to him, mean family trips. Holidays. And most importantly, planes. (Or, 'paynes' as he calls them). When he realised that we weren't accompanying his father through the International Departures gate, and that no plane ride was in the offing, all hell broke loose.

He did a more than passable impersonation of Houdini with the straps on his buggy whilst Boy #1 and I made a rush for the exit. The air of chaos surrounding us was not helped by Boy #1, affected more than I'd realised by Husband's departure (silly of me really, but he'd been so matter of fact about it all up until then), getting confused over who is who and starting to wail that he wanted his mama. Yes, mama.

Now, he meant papa. Clearly. You know that, and I know that. But if you were standing in the check-in queue, looking at a harrassed woman rushing two small boys out of the airport, one of whom is crying fit to break your heart, and the other of whom is shouting for his mother, wouldn't it raise an eyebrow?

Amazingly, we didn't get stopped.

I consoled Boy #2 with a detour around the Heathrow perimiter road on our way home, nearly crashing the car any number of times in the process as I pointed out various planes to him (who knew they'd changed the layout due to the introduction of Terminal 5?), and then rewarded Boy #1 for not turning me in to the authorities with an illicit viewing of 'Crocodile Hunter - Collision Course' later in the afternoon.

With Husband out of the house I thought I would get away with this excessive tv viewing and that no-one would be any the wiser as to my poor parenting skills, especially as my original plan (which he was aware of) had been to take them to Holland Park after Boy #2's afternoon nap. But no. The first thing Boy #1 did when my beloved called from Moscow this evening?

"Papa! Papa! We watched Crocodile Hunter THE MOVIE! It was great!"

Busted.

No wonder I want chocolate.