ONE of the biggest disappointments of my childhood years came at Easter.

For weeks I had coveted a giant Cadbury's Creme Egg in the local supermarket.

I pictured myself sitting on the living room carpet scooping out the gooey, sticky sweetness with the big ladle my mother used for serving soup. It was going to be sublime. I was glassy-eyed thinking about it.

So imagine my dismay when Easter Sunday arrived and I cracked open that bad boy to discover, well, nothing. It was a hollow chocolate shell.

The two normal-sized Creme Eggs which accompanied it offered little solace. I traipsed back to the kitchen and dejectedly replaced the ladle in the drawer.

By the time I returned, the dog had wolfed down the lot, packaging and all, and was looking thoroughly delighted with herself. It was the cruellest of moments.

Nor did I feel any better when I was reacquainted with the stolen goods only moments later when the greedy pooch promptly regurgitated it. Nothing says Easter like the good fireplace rug being turned into a fetid chocolate swamp.

According to a new survey, the average child will receive £56 worth of Easter eggs and consume 8,000 calories of chocolate over the coming days.

The research found parents spend an average of £25 on each child, while family members and friends fork out a further £31.

How many of these eggs will lead to bitter anti-climax or be guzzled by pets (and parents) is not stated. I imagine it is a lot.

Come to think of it, I'm not that fond of Easter. As much as I love all the trappings (bank holidays, licence to eat to excess) there are many occasions where it has left me with egg on my face.

Like the time my Sunday school class had to stand up and say what we enjoyed most about attending church. While everyone else reeled off reasons like "to learn about Jesus" and "to sing my favourite hymns", I piped up with "for the juice and biscuits at the end".

The ensuing stony silence which fell upon the packed pews still haunts me. Suffice to say my Sunday school career was short-lived.

Then there is the tradition of decorating hard-boiled eggs. While a dab hand with the paints and rolling them down a hill, as a youngster the thought of eating one turned my stomach.

One year I hatched the cunning plan of feeding the hard-boiled eggs to the dog, but her canine digestive system swiftly betrayed me and a rank, sulphuric smell began to seep from her perch under the table as we were eating Sunday lunch.

Is there an Easter equivalent of bah humbug?