by Caroline Garlick

Created on: March 14, 2010

Unlike Christmas, when my sisters and I awoke tingling and breathless and wondering if Santa had been, no such tradition of secrecy or magic existed around the arrival of our Easter eggs. Our parents did not have a special hiding place for the brightly-coloured boxes of sweet delights that awaited us, nor was any pretence kept about fluffy bunnies sneaking into the house in the dead of night to deliver them. Instead, they were placed on top of a tall dresser in the living room as soon as they were donated by aunts, uncles and kindly neighbours, the selection growing larger and more obtrusive in the days leading up to that Sunday. Despite the temptation, we always endured the wait with great dignity and aplomb, obeying the rule that the chocolate was not to be partaken of until the day itself .

So it met with some dismay when our mother established, with severity, that even though it was Easter Sunday, it was still not acceptable to have a packet of Smarties for breakfast, and no, not even if it was only a fun-sized pack. We were, however, allowed to break open the boxes and use the new mugs, each emblazoned with the title of a well-known chocolate brand, for our morning drink. I was upset one year when my older sister received Wispa, even though everyone knew Wispa was my favourite chocolate bar, and she clearly should have been given Crunchie instead. I was only placated when she suggested that we split the contents of the two Easter egg boxes, and alternate usage of the two mugs equally. Thus, ever after, I was only permitted to use the navy-blue mug at the designated times, and was relegated to the much-maligned yellow Crunchie one otherwise.

Of course, though, we all knew that Easter was about so much more than which mug we received. No, that special day truly was, for us, all about the chocolate. Our mother, no doubt resigned to the inevitable onslaught of stomach aches which would shortly descend, veritably shut the living room door on us and let us have our way. With glee, we tore into our spoils, and despite the fact that those things are always more packaging than chocolate anyway (a fact which, incidentally, was always forgotten when the excitement began to build a year later), we oohed and aahed and declared that this or that particular chocolate treat was easily the best one ever, far superior to whichever one another sister was enjoying at that moment. However, at this point I must declare that when I say we, I only refer to myself, and two out

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