My Easter Confession

Easter egg

Easter egg


My Easter Confession by Patric Morgan

I have a confession to make.

I’m not proud. I don’t feel good about it – I really didn’t want my wife to find out about it. But if I’m totally honest and truthful, I loved every second of it. And I’d do it all over again.

Believe it or not, it all started while I was sat watching Songs of Praise. Yes, that rock of age-old TV show, where the holiest of Christian soldiers merrily raise their voices to the Lord, safe in the knowledge that they’ve got a Fast Track ticket to heaven when they perish. Yes, frail as summer’s flower we flourish, but blows the wind and it is gone. In the meantime, there’s fun to be had.

Mine took the form of an Easter egg.

The chorus of Lenten hymns had drifted from the cold stone walls of the church on telly and filtered into my malleable and unsuspecting mind. I’d only been sat there minding my own business but the hymns started a chain reaction in my brain. Long-forgotten images and feelings came sparking to life in my brain – the walk home from church on Easter Sunday as a kid. The warmth of the sun on our backs; the buds of spring waiting to burst; the open windows in the streets and the net curtains billowing out on the warm breeze; the waft of Easter dinner that Dad would have had ready for us; the chunks of chicken in gravy and the boiled potatoes that were either too hard or too soft.

But it was the Easter eggs that we’d all been waiting for. The table would be cleared of half-eaten dinners and Mum would bring them in in a large plastic carrier bag. Oh, mine eyes had seen the glory of the coming of the eggs alright.

Those were the days.

But gone now are the walks home from church. Gone are the chicken dinners. And gone are the Easter eggs.

My belief in religion has waned. My wife has gone vegan. And me, in my cynical, stomach-spreading late 30s, have done away with the money-spinning industry of Easter eggs. Such poor value for money anyway.

That was all until Songs of Praise came on telly. And the hymns. And the thoughts of my childhood.

So five minutes later and I’m on the way home from the local garage. With a Wispa Easter egg under my arm.

The box stood no chance. And then there it was – in its glittering skin-tight foil, caressing every line and curve. Little, if anything, was left to the imagination. There was no stopping me.

I held it one hand and slid my fingers to the top where I knew that I could loosen the foil. Gently, slowly, I tugged at it. It offered a little resistance but with a little persuasion, I teased it off, right the way to the bottom.

It stood looking at me – perfect in its nakedness; the curves, the aroma, the look of innocence and mischief at once.

Then I bashed it with a rolling pin.

The two shells fall apart. I lifted them up and looked inside – the wonder of the smooth small chocolate hills and plains that habited this brown world. I clip-clopped them to make the sounds of a passing horse. No-one was looking. Why not?

Another bash with the rolling pin. Then some casual snapping of the sharp shapes. Within seconds, it was in my mouth, thick choculance oozing over my tongue and down my throat silkier than any simile I can think of. Each mouthful melting into a cocoa utopia. And those thick bits – oh those magnificent, bewitching thick bits!

I was lost in this hedonistic heaven. My mind slowly swirled with chocolate and pure joy. It lasted all of five minutes but boy was it good.

Expecting the wife home at any minute, I gathered up the evidence and got rid of it quick. There was to be no trace of it being here. Should she find out that I’d eaten chocolate behind her back, there would be hell to pay.

Later on, as we watched Supersize v Superskinny, the topic of Easter eggs came up. We discussed the fact that Easter eggs these days are too over the top – all we wanted as kids was a simple egg with a see-through plastic bag of Smarties inside.

And now, that we’re older, and now that we can just go to the shop and buy an egg, the magic has gone. As a vegan, craving chocolate was one of the hardest parts. I told her that Easter eggs were a waste of money and a marketing person’s dream.

I think she bought it.

But if only she knew.

Patric is an award-winning writer. Read more at or follow him on Twitter here




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