My love-hate relationship with the ob-Easter bunny
It was when I found myself sat in my pants in front of the fridge at midnight, chomping on my fourth chocolate Easter egg of the day that I realised I needed help.
I don't know why I did it.
I spend most of the year living like a miserable monk, depriving myself of sweets, treats and generally all life's little pleasures in a desperate bid not to turn into Jabba The Hutt.
I've lost count of the number of times I've declined a pudding for fear of what it will do to my middle age spread.
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You know what they say girls; a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.
Oh yeah, that's right, I'm in touch with my feminine side.
I've even been dragging myself to the gym twice a week in a forlorn bid to get rid of my love handles.
It hasn't worked.
When it comes to handles I've got more grabbing potential than a suitcase, a backpack and Dawn French's handbag combined.
So why I let myself down this week is a mystery to me.
It was a moment of weakness, a culinary temptation that proved just too strong to resist.
As always, the mind is willing to transform me into some sort of toned Greek Adonis, but the flesh remains resolutely disinterested.
At Easter, all those months of self-flagellating deprivation and pain came crashing down purely because of a basket-full of egg-shaped delicacies.
I had one bite, just to check on the quality for old times's sake, and the next thing I know I'm bathed in the light of the fridge, chomping on a Cadbury's Buttons egg like a starving lion devouring a wildebeest.
Only in this case, the wildebeest gets the last laugh.
After egg three I felt more rotund than a pre-wall Humpty Dumpty.
Worse still, it wasn't even my chocolate. It was my kids'.
I'd purposely asked not to be bought any chocolate simply because I knew what an absolute pig it would turn me into.
To be honest, I'm just as annoyed at everyone who bought my offspring seven-hundred weight of delicious gluttony-inducing, cocoa-related products.
Did they not know I wouldn't be able to resist?
They might as well have bought me a one-way ticket to Diabetes Central, stopping only at Tight Trouser Town, Man Boobington and Little Coronary-on-the-Sofa.
And why on earth do we celebrate Easter with chocolate anyway?
I know if I'd just been resurrected after a pretty horrific weekend being nailed to a cross and singing Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life next to Eric Idle, the last thing I'd be in the mood for is a Nestlé Kit Kat Chunky.
In fact, after putting in all the hard work, I'd be dischuffed to find the Easter Bunny taking all my glory.
How many sins has that droopy-eared egg fiend ever died for?
Apparently, the tradition of giving Easter eggs started in third century Mesopotamia, when painted eggs were supposed to symbolise a stone-life tomb, from which new life could spring.
Don't say you never learn anything reading this column.
I'm pretty sure the early Mesopotamians never intended their simple gifts to become a waddle-inducing calorie fix for western lard buckets 1,800 years later.
And why, when we are constantly berated for having the fattest children in Europe, do we insist on giving them industrial quantities of chocolate every April? It's madness.
Some 20 per cent of kids nationally are now obese – or fat as we used to call it – and if my two ate every chocolate rabbit, bar, button and egg they had shovelled towards their cake holes this weekend, they would be well on their way to joining them.
In fact, if you think about it, I was doing my kids a favour by saving them the trauma of having to eat all that unhealthy stuff.
In many ways I'm a hero taking one for the team.
Now all I've got to do is to get down the gym and go running for five hours to burn off the 3,000 calories I've just pigged out on.