I FEAR for my son’s BMI following Easter.

By Good Friday he already had seven eggs that, if stacked up one on top of the other, would be a good foot over his head.

Poor sausage. The tricky part has been snatching the good stuff away from him as soon as he was given it.

Kindly friends and relatives would present him with the boxes of foil wrapped eggs, some complete with Thomas the Tank engine mugs, Peppa Pig stampers or Toy Story plates, only for it to be just as swiftly snatched away by me or his dad.

The explanation was met with a disappointed blub or outright bawl depending on how hungry he was at the time.

Christmas is an easy one to explain, with the fat jolly man in red coming down the chimney for the good boys and girls.

But Easter is a bit tricky. The religious significance would clearly be lost on him and there is no logical explanation for the fact that on this one day you are allowed to gorge yourself on chocolate because some sort of cocoa-mad bunny has delivered it to you.

No doubt the eggs will be dished out on a ration-style basis, cunningly used in cake baking attempts or just blatantly devoured by his own chocolate-needy parents. It is the least we can do for him.