I’ve always had a sweet tooth,
not least as a child.
It was a big ask one year when
Miss Smart our Sunday School teacher
suggested we all gave up sweets for Lent,
keeping carefully those given to us and
bringing them in to her on Easter Sunday.
She would send them to poor kids
whose parents couldn’t afford any.
Must have had a crush on Miss Smart
because I was very keen to please her.
Not a single sweet passed my lips
for the duration and I collected them
in a large tin under my bed.
Awoke early on Easter Sunday and
took the lid off the tin, full to the brim.
Festive eggs, toffees, peppermints, licorice,
nougat, fudge, the odd gob-stopper or two.
Popped a fruit pastille into my mouth,
lay back in bed savouring the moment.
Couldn’t resist trying a chocolate,
rather a scrumptious strawberry cup.
In no time at all the tin was empty,
bedroom floor scattered with wrappers.
Suddenly felt queasy and only
made it to the bathroom just in time.
Even worse was the thought of facing
Miss Smart later that morning.
At breakfast eyed warily the man-eating
monster of a milk chocolate egg
presented to me by dear old Mum and Dad
with my name on it in sugary icing.