It should have been my best Easter ever: I was 7 and had been given a load of Easter eggs. I piled them up carefully, waiting to be given the nod to start chomping through them (or waiting until no-one was looking). After an interminable church service and lunch, my step-father announced that we were going for a drive. That's what you did on Sunday afternoons in the 1970's. I hated it, and often ended up throwing up in a National Trust car park. I don't know where we went that afternoon, but I was on a promise - no complaining and I could start on the chocolate when we got home. I remember rushing indoors to grab the biggest egg, but the stash had gone and the carpet was strewn with bits of cardboard and foil... the dog had got there before me. There wasn't anything left. I was bitterly disappointed, but deep down I couldn't begrudge her as she had been eating all my unwanted vegetables (fed surreptitiously under the table at mealtimes) for months.