Christopher Hitchens, whose memoirs I'm steadily working through, gently chastises his friend, the poet James Fenton, for " awakening (Hitchen's)...buried and dangerous lust for alcohol and nicotine". I like neither stimulant, never have, never will; but chocolate serves the purpose as strongly as either of Hitchen's companion vices, maybe as strong as the two combined.

I'm in thrall to Theobroma. The cocoa bean, that stubby, green pod, leads me by the nose, the prod in the back; it leads, I follow. I always have been, and it looks like I always will.

And in the times when the sullen, stickiness of work pressure has it's baleful shadow over me as is the case right now where I don't know whether I'm coming or going, my appetite for chocolate is gargantuan. Truly massive.