IF EVER there were a definition of sweet sorrow, it's the news that you're to permanently reintroduce that 1980s icon, the Wispa bar, in October, after its successful seven-week trial run last year.
You see, for those seven weeks I found my pocket
s empty and my waistband considerably tighter, thanks to the powerful grip of a full-blown Wispa addiction. I can't go back.
As much as it pains me, I must beg you to reconsider. Allow me to explain the depths of my addiction.
When I was a toddler, my parents found that no matter what they tried to stuff into my mouth, be it puréed carrots or mashed bananas, the exercise would be met by me with a firm "No 'ike 'at".
One day my mother gave me a packet of Cadbury's chocolate buttons and watched as I stuffed one in my mouth with a sweaty paw, pursing my lips and twitching my nose, before, eyes widening, I gave my verdict: "'ike 'at!"
Since that day I've been addicted to chocolate, in particular Cadbury's chocolate.
My parents tried – and continue to try – to control it, but to no avail: when denied chocolate at the age of six, I stole a Fudge bar from Woolworths and hid it under my pillow. When I was eight I received my first grounding for eating all the chocolates off the Christmas tree in one sticky sitting.
I read and re-read Roald Dahl's description of the river of molten chocolate in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, fantasising about dunking a chubby fist into it and licking my hand like an ice-cream cone.
I vividly remember the first time I unwrapped that sticky foil from a Cadbury's Creme Egg and discovered the wondrous sugary secrets that lay within its chocolate shell.
However, when it comes to chocolate I'm actually a bit of a purist. I'll happily dabble in Whole Nut or even Fruit and Nut, but I'm a Dairy Milk girl at heart and I'd happily down that glass and a half full of sheer pleasure over the finest bottle of Champagne.
The Wispa, though, is chocolate at its finest. Forget poncey organic dark chocolate, to me the Wispa is the Krug of the chocolate world. It's not polluted by such inferior ingredients as caramel or biscuit, but instead performs its intoxicating dance with bubbles of air.
Surely there can be no superior taste experience than the unbearable lightness of biting into a bar of chocolaty bubbles? Truly, the Wispa is the manifestation of American architect Louis Sullivan's mantra that form should follow function. It is bliss, ecstasy, nirvana.
And it is for that reason that it cannot be reintroduced. You sold 20 million Wispas when they were brought back for a trial run last year. I can account for approximately one million of those chocolate bars.
Within days of the launch I became reliant on them and found myself feasting on three a day. Colleagues would find discarded Wispa wrappers dotted around the office and friends began tipping me off on newsagents who'd just received a delivery.
Before long, I was buying them in bulk, afraid that the "limited-edition run" would come to an end at any minute.
However, when it did, life went on. Sure, there were the shakes and a bit of sweating, but as so many addicts will attest, when the supply runs out you've no choice but to go cold turkey.
And of course, my selection box helped to tide me over during the Christmas period, then before I knew it, it was Easter, and the happy arrival of Mini Eggs.
Today I get by on Caramel bars and the occasional Crunchie, but deep down I know it's not the same, and despite my hard work weaning myself off them, just one bite and I'll be as hooked as ever. The craving is always there.
And so I must plead with you, keep the Wispas at bay. Let them remain a happy, but distant memory. I've finally got my life (and my waistline) back. Don't take it away from me.
Regards, Alice Wyllie