A couple of weekends ago I went on an epic walk through London with a great friend from L.A.. We covered all points well known and many more not so.

One of the pit stops was the chocolate boutique that operates out of Harrods. It's not called that, but the conceit is all there; everything is hand-picked by amazingly attentive assistants, and artisan is the name of the game, bespoke, wild, inspired creations.

My friend and fellow choco-fiend bought some chocolate that had surely slipped the surly bonds of normal hand made chocolate. This stuff was beyond divine. In another galaxy.

I had that Florence moment that ultra-sensitive tourists are reputed to have the instant they get anywhere near the place and drop to the floor insensible. Knocked out cold by the the sheer emotion of it all. Except I could n't swoon. Being a man, for one thing, and a cheek by jowl crowded shopfloor for another.

Her words are much finer than mine in summing up the rapture these love-bombs produced, This article in the latest edition of the Morton Report. (Yup, that Morton...)tells it better than I could ever hope for.

It's incontrovertible that I am London's greatest chocoholic in human form and that my word is final on all matters chocolate; there's no question about the nirvana status of the cassis and hibiscus dark chocolate. I attest to that. Bluntly they rock...

Regrettably due to eye-watering expense, this will be an unrepeatable experience, and perhaps it's better that way, the memory crystallised, the fear of the next set not being quite as good as the revelation generated by the first. This is also why I've never re-read Wuthering Heights; I can't dare think it might be flawed.

Nonetheless, I regard this experience with the contentment and satisfaction one might feel looking at a cloudless Everest. The chocolate peace that passeth all understanding.