There is nothing more indulgent (aside from an afternoon of shoe shopping) than having good friends over to enjoy some champagne and exceptional chocolate. The chocolate varies, some weekends it’s French, others it’s Belgian or British, but this month it’s all about Patchi. I was a little girl when I received my first box and my eyes lit up in delight as I peered in this magical box of bronze, golden and coppery wrappers. It was all rather unsettling for my parents who knew that look in my eye, the sort of gaze that makes them have a whispered conversation that goes something like: “You know she’s going to finish that in three days.” “Three? More like by tomorrow. Quick! Distract her so that we can hide half the box.” Of-course I knew all the predictable hiding places, chocolate in the laundry room was a bit tricky, I had to develop this little ninja move where I had to jump up and balance on top of the washing machine, praying I wouldn’t topple in with the whites. I found the giant box of Patchi and devoured it like an animal with my bunny shaped glass filled with chocolate milk. I’d like to think I’ve matured slightly and refrained from rodent like carnage. Moderately slightly. I blame the scrumptious Patchi, if you haven’t tried it then I suggest you do with some good friends and a bottle of champagne or two.