dot"> <META NAME="GENERATOR" CONTENT="Mozilla/4.

01 en (Win95; I) Netscape"> <A HREF="http://ads.

newsquest.

co.

uk/RealMedia/ads/click_nx.

cgi/www.

thisisyork.

co.

uk/york/epnews/christitley.

html@Top" target="content"><IMG SRC="http://ads.

newsquest.

co.

uk/RealMedia/ads/adstream_nx.

cgi/www.

thisisyork.

co.

uk/york/epnews/christitley.

html@Top" HSPACE=3 VSPACE=3 BORDER=0 >

xAllan Clews

xDiary of a househusband

<IMG SRC="/york/furniture/images/dot_clear.

gif" HEIGHT=1 WIDTH=10>

I have it on good authority that we can all blame it on Pope Gregory the Great. We can mutter a few scornful Gregorian chants of our own on Sunday morning and wonder just what he was drinking 16 hundred years ago.

After all, what could the Easter Bunny, chocolate rabbits, chickens andcolourful eggs possibly have to do with Easter?

Come to think of it, what on earth could Easter possibly have to do with... Easter - or at least the resurrection of Jesus? Because the last time I checked, wasn't Easter, or more correctly, Eostre, the name of a Saxon Goddess? And weren't the bunnies and eggs part of her fertility celebrations?

If only Pope Gregory hadn't been so zealous in his drive to control all of Europe. If only he hadn't come up with the silly idea of gradually converting our Pagan ancestors by allowing some of their pre-Christian practices to survive. Then we would all be waking up at a reasonable hour on Sunday morning, instead of moaning under our covers as the door flies open well before dawn amid a gaggle of loud, cheerful shrieks:

"Did the Easter Bunny come?"

"Did he bring us any chocolate eggs?"

"Can we go downstairs and see?"

And it gets even more insidious, because we ourselves have been turned into willing followers of the Goddess Eostre as we help to perpetuate this Pagan custom.

Carefully sneaking down the aisles of the supermarket, hunting for chocolate treats when we've finally tricked the children into looking the other way - just so that we can help to make sure that the myth of the Easter Bunny survives. The myth of that kind, selfless hare; that friend of children everywhere; that silly little rabbit who will deprive me of at least two hours of sleep on Sunday morning. Thus insuring that the phrase 'he has arisen' could easily refer to my own disheveled appearance at the top of the stairs.

I'm still not sure why I go along with it every year. It certainly isn't because I want to turn my innocent little children into depraved chocoholics.

I don't even enjoy watching them as the sweet brown intoxicant begins to flood into their brains - overloading their neural circuitry and turning them into hyperactive monsters who are unable to control their urge to jump and scream for the next eight hours until they finally crash.

No, I'm not really looking forward to Sunday: to the squabbles that will inevitably arise when one of the children casts a covetous glance at another's stash; to the heated arguments about whether it is better to begin by eating the head or the feet; to the screaming and crying that is certain to break out when one of them suddenly feels short-changed in the chocolate wars.

At some point, I'm even certain that I'll be forced to wade into the middle of an ensuing confrontation and angrily glare at them.

But this isn't the worst of it, because I know from previous experience, that I'll also be desperately struggling not to surrender to my own weak nature by simply confiscating the disputed piece. Then quickly tossing it into my mouth and making sure that the pleasurable nature of this punishment is adequately expressed by the rapturous look on my face.

Of course, I did come close last year. Fortunately, I managed to pull myself back from the brink of temptation at the last possible moment.

Unfortunately, I can't really claim that this was a moral victory and that my sense of reason and fair play triumphed in the end.

The only thing that really saved me, was that when I actually looked down at the piece of chocolate in question, I just knew in my heart I wouldn't be able to really enjoy something that was covered in so many smudgy fingerprints.

If you have any comments you would like to make, contact features@ycp.co.uk

21/04/00

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.