Easter Eggs Are A Huge Test Of My Willpower

Mar 23 2008

MONDAY

Friend Fiona Duff gave me some Victorian lady sleep sachets that are supposed to help give you a good night's kip. They look a bit like teabags but are full of lavender and stuff.

I plop two in the bath and leave it to steep. I return after 10 minutes and they don't seem to have done much at all.

There are no wafts of loveliness - just two sopping wet teabaglookalikes in the bath. But I fish them out and get in anyway.

As I crawl into bed I read the back of the box the teabags came out of only to discover they are not meant for your bath at all. You are supposed to tuck them in your pillowcase and inhale the fragrance. Oops!

TUESDAY

The shops are all full of Easter eggs just begging to be bought and eaten. I'm trying to resist but there are so many good deals I buy a job lot that I think will do for all the nieces, nephews and pals. So I stash them in a cupboard - done and dusted.

Then I find myself sitting in and watching Blood Diamond on DVD - it's brilliant but harrowing. Halfway through I put it on pause to make a cup of tea and have a cursory look for a biscuit then a light goes on in my head...there are 10 Easter eggs in the cupboard looking for love.

I ignore my inner demon and return to the film with a digestive and a cup of tea.

Within three minutes another dramatic scene has me banging on the pause button, running up the stairs, flinging open the cupboard and standing smiling at the eggs.

The decision to go for the Maltesers egg takes seconds and by the time I am downstairs it is already out of the box and the silver paper ripped. I pop a whole half into my mouth and bite. Thank you Easter bunny!

WEDNESDAY

There must be quite a lot of caffeine in chocolate. I was up most of the night with the sugar rush you would expect having horsed the entire egg.

In addition, despite a recent report that chocolate doesn't give you spots I have a landing light plook emerging on my chin. Nice.

The other problem I encountered was when I did finally manage to drop off I dreamed I was a diamond smuggler, below, rampaging round Africa being pursued by gun-wielding maniacs. Exhausted and spotty - not a good start to the day.

I make it to teatime without dozing off but as soon as I can I rush off and run a bath to soak in.

Then I dig out Fiona's "sleep sachets" and plonk one on my pillow. That'll explain the teabag attached to my face then.

THURSDAY

Slept like a log - teabag or not. Up and out walking the dogs with pal Fiona. The rain has transformed the path at the Water of Leith into a river of mud by the time we battle through.

At one point there is no way past a tree which has fallen over the path. As we slip and slide trying to clamber over it I liken it to It's A Knockout and half expect presenter Stuart Hall, below, to appear. As we attempt to straddle it, Fiona's feet go from under her, her head hits my knee on the way down and she splats into the mud. She is OK but looks like the abominable mud monster as she walks, John Wayne - like, home.

This proves beyond all reasonable doubt yet again that exercise is bad for you. I hope her eye doesn't come up in a great black keeker or I know she'll tell everyone, "Alison kneed me in the face." Which of course is exactly what happened.

FRIDAY

Dave and Louis get their hair cut. Dave comes back looking 10 years younger while Louis seems 10 years older.

As I check them out Dave announces the hairdresser told him short grey hair was voted the most sexy of all hair types. Naturally I snort with laughter.

"No, really," he assures me as Louis and I look at each other, eyebrows aloft. "It's the George Clooney look," he goes on. The jury is still out on that one.

Louis is at the teenage stage of experimenting with 500 different types of mousse and gel and only leaves the house once he has scrunched, pinged and pulled his barnet into the right shape.

This is taking longer and longer every day to the extent I will soon have to prevent him going to sleep at all as by the time he sorts his hair it is practically lunchtime. And they say women are bad.

SATURDAY

Dave comes strolling in grinning still in his "grey hair is the most sexy of all hair types" dream.

I give him the eye and ask: " What's wrong with your jacket? It looks distinctly strange."

"Nothing," he says shrugging.

"There is. Come here," I request.

As he comes over I notice there are wee holes on the sleeves. On closer inpsection they are on both arms and as he turns round I can see they all over the back as well. The moths have had it!

"Yup," I inform him. "You've been striding round the streets of Edinburgh wheeling and dealing in a jacket with more holes in it than Danniella Westbrook's (left) nose."

"Who's Danniella Westbrook?" he inquires, trying in vain to change the subject.