A Chocolate Silence.

The shopping centre at five minutes to eight in the morning is a different place; the car park is empty, most of the shops remain shut, the canned music has not been switched on, some of the neon remains asleep and just a few people walk through the empty halls. There is a feeling of calm, of peace and I could almost say I like it.

Except I’m looking for a croissant, and the sandwich bar is deserted, the boulangerie’s grill is only half open and there is no one in sight.

I was in this place when, out of respect for the victims of the attack on the World Trade Centre, everyone and everything stopped for a minute of silence. There were no chairs or benches at the time, they have been added recently, so we all stopped in mid stride where we were; some with bags on their way to the car, some alongside the cashier with an armful of groceries.

The canned music stopped and the only movement was the bird trapped among the rafters.

This morning I am the only movement, except for the man who runs the chocolate stand.

He recognises me and says hello.

I didn’t think my addiction was so apparent.

I have studied his staff- there are three and I always try to rotate my purchasers among them so that they don't remember– is this excessive?

The chocolate covered diced lemon is excellent, especially when mixed with the milk chocolate almonds.

They always ask you if you want it wrapped or if you intend to eat them immediately; I always reply that I would like them wrapped so as not to appear in a rush, then I try not to dribble as they slowly measure out the appropriate length of ribbon.

And since we’ve moved from croissant to chocolate through the intermediate subject of terrorist attacks – here’s a thought.

What do you reckon, would this constitute grounds for divorce?

Imagine that it’s father’s day, your daughter surprises you by giving you a tin of chocolates, special chocolates – you know those kind that when you smell them you start drooling.

And imagine that you are the dad.

You share them; pass them round but save a few for the next evening.

Imagine it’s the next evening and you are alone with your wife, settling down to laugh a little more at the French football team and you wife helps herself to the tin.

Without asking.

Imagine that in the tin there are four chocolates, three dark one white.

Imagine that white is your favourite.

A white father’s day chocolate gifted by your daughter that you’ve been saving.

And your wife scoffs it.