The Box

Gothenburg, Sweden

Picture the situation. There I was on the 16th floor of a tower block on the outskirts of Sweden’s Gothenburg. For some reason the locals had coloured the place black. It was raining; it does a lot of that in Sweden. Two weeks of rain, maybe 50 millimetres each month, is a good average.

As I looked out the windows I could hardly see the ground. I was in a suit. Okay it was Marks and Sparks but who cares? My tie was akimbo, half on, half off, and my jacket lay untidily across an unmade bed. I had just given a lecture to an audience that had looked incurably bored. Clearly it was me as whatever I said, however much I shouted, save stripping to flesh on stage and before at least 1200 onlookers, I could not get the delegate dead centre, front row, to open his eyes. Best I could tell he was snoring. At least he was sufficiently decent to keep his head from lolling but it was clear my talk, something tediously medical, was of insufficient vigour to keep him awake. I was failing, and failing badly.

It is strange what one thinks when stood on stage in a major auditorium and on full public and professional display. One might imagine it would be serious. But no, my mind was everywhere, although at that moment focussed on the snorer, who was beginning to make his next-door neighbours laugh. I saw one take a photograph on his mobile and show it to some sniggering friends. No doubt the picture would be used as blackmail at some point in the future.

As I delivered my presentation, on this, my possibly umpteenth occasion - it was a topic I knew well - it was difficult to give the talk the enthusiasm it deserved. No wonder the guy was nodding off; I would have to try harder. Anyway, I had seen him propping up the bar in the early hours and his current stupor was more likely a Scandinavian hangover. Nevertheless, a sleeper in the audience made me vow to return to presentation school even if I had been forewarned that barely half the delegates before me understood Queen’s English.

Apart from my failure as a lecturer I was also suffering incredible stress. Not professional, nor domestic, social, financial, nothing you might imagine. Yet it was real stress, a major strain, an impact on my life that left nothing for manoeuvre. I was caught tightly in its grasp. The reason? Oh well, here goes, provided you promise not to tell. I am an addict, you see. I never thought to admit it but now seems as good a time as any. And no, before you make judgement, I do not have needle marks on my veins. Yet the Swedes are entirely to blame. I had controlled my craving seemingly forever and had felt able to keep yearning at bay. But on this occasion, I failed and, damn it all, the flood gates reopened after two years of watertight closure.

It is chocolate, you see. That brown stuff, dark or light, that milky sweet, the wonderful food, if food it is, that since childhood I found impossible to resist. Years back, had you glanced at the passenger foot well of my car, my hankering would have been revealed. Wrappers, bags, boxes, cartons, chocolate in whatever form it came. Foot wells are sad things as they reveal a driver’s favoured out-of-hours habits. It was the pile of chocolate wrappers in a foot well that one day made me go cold turkey. The debris was so shameful, I knew I had to quit. It was not a pleasant experience, life without chocolate, but after many decades of consuming, ingesting, eating, at times probably inhaling the stuff, I was on the open road and clear. My addiction had vanished. Until…until…until…well, until Gothenburg, you see.

So, on the 16th floor of the tower block, me sat at a desk writing my next talk, I was trying desperately to resist The Box. Yes, The Box. It was brown, cardboard, maybe 15 centimetres square. Embossed on one side were the words “La Praline”. Oh dear, La Praline. I know Gothenburg is famous for its parks and houses, festivals, fairs and music. It is a must-go place for many. However, it is also the home of what to me is the best truffle maker on the planet. Apologies, planet is an understatement. I mean the universe and beyond.

You see there I was trying hard to resist The Box. I was hungry, had missed lunch, and wanted little more than a fillip. Despite focussing on my forthcoming lecture, however much I pretended The Box did not exist, it was there, immobile, stationary, waiting, maybe even whispering from just over my shoulder. For whatever reason, I felt guilty. Culpable of some crime, heinous perhaps, yet all I wanted was to resist opening The Box.

“Open me!” it shouted.

“Go away!” I yelled back.

“Come on!” howled The Box, words that only I could hear. “Open me and have a look!”

Our shouting ebbed and flowed while my conscience wavered. For a moment, I thought I was in control. The Box? Chocolate? Come on, that was ages ago. There was no need to travel that path again.

And then it hit me. Maybe it was the smell. You can smell chocolate, can’t you? Even if the manufacturers wrap it in vacuum-packed foil, the aroma somehow seeps out. Before I realised, and with total loss of control, I had reached behind me, ripped open the perfectly constructed box and bitten open the foil container within. I could have been on a desert island, stranded for a year, and not approached my first meal with such urgency. That moment, that hour, that day, I would have killed to break in to that chocolate.

You see chocolate addiction is common. So many have it, although girls outnumber boys by a good margin. It is most likely something called tryptophan, an amino acid which is a precursor to serotonin. And when serotonin strikes, you had best take cover. The higher your serotonin, the more elated you feel. With that first munch of chocolate, no wonder you sense an after-burner at your rear. No surprise that runners, marathoners, skiers, climbers, the military, all keep chocolate bars in their pockets.

The other irresistible chemical in chocolate, and which does strange things to your system, is something they call phenylethylamine. It from this that amphetamine is derived. Indeed, phenylethylamine is sometimes called chocolate amphetamine for this reason. And do not go holier-than-thou. For the druggies, crystal meth is a form of amphetamine, too. Chocolate, crystal meth, is there really a difference?

But chocolate is good for you as well, even if one bar a day adds two pounds to your weight each month and your bad cholesterol can rocket. One study showed chocolate to be good for brain function, another showed it could restore flexibility to arteries, while another demonstrated it reduced stroke risk by an easy 17%, at least if you lived in Finland. Chocolate was also packed with minerals such as potassium, selenium and zinc. And as for mothers-to-be, they should eat chocolate by the ton. Research has shown their offspring smile more if mum has guzzled chocolate during pregnancy.

Chocolate is now one of the most popular foods in the world. More than 7.5 million tons are eaten globally each year. No surprises, or prizes, but the USA accounts for 20% of the world’s chocolate consumption, while the average Brit, Swiss or German will eat 24 pounds of the stuff annually. Frighteningly, 66% of chocolate scoffing is between meals and an astonishing 22% takes place between 8 p.m. and midnight. That makes humans a greedy lot. Chocolate may have a medical function as well. Oxford Brookes University was recently given more than US$100,000 to investigate reports that chocolate reduced fatigue in multiple sclerosis. By all accounts they could be right.

Chocolate has been around for a very long time, yet often as a drink. The Mayans slurped and ate it before 500 A.D. while the Aztecs gobbled it up in the 15th century. One of their gods, Quetzalcoatl, was even cast away by his fellow gods for sharing chocolate with humans. Chocolate extraction from its pod was likened in those days to the sacrificial removal of the human heart. Serious stuff, this chocolate.

So, you see my problem, faced with The Box, courtesy of La Praline, and positioned right behind my shoulder. The thing did not last long. The moment I had bitten open the foil liner in desperation, out spilled that first truffle, its powdery chocolate shell staining my fingers, trousers, then my shirt and next my face. I stuffed the truffle into my wide-open mouth, shamefully glimpsing my efforts in the mirror. I felt disgraced, dishonoured, soiled, contaminated and for a moment I vowed that would be all. But my promise did not last long. Second truffle followed first, third followed second, then four, five, six and beyond. Within moments, certainly by truffle seven, all guilt had disappeared and I felt the serotonin, and lookalike crystal meth, surging through me. Chocoholism had returned, and with a vengeance. Within moments the truffles were no more.

Yet there is satisfaction in this tale, not just confession, as some hours later, lecture complete, I returned to my colleagues on the ground floor of the tower block. We were sat in the meeting room where speakers might gather and at times escape. I looked at each colleague individually. There were maybe 15 of us in total, sat at a long, shiny, mahogany conference table. We were eerily silent, as normally we would discuss the day so far and anticipate what was to follow.

Far left was Albert. Oh boy, did he look guilty. I looked at him more closely. Was that a faint trace of chocolate powder on his lips? For sure it was. And Maria, sat one away to my right. Was that really the tell-tale trace of La Praline I could see sprinkled on the lap of her designer skirt? I could bet you it was. And as for Tony, at the far end of the table and way to my right, he had somehow managed to jam chocolate powder under his fingernails. Meanwhile Karl, from deepest Zurich, had clearly been so intent that he had spread the stuff on his eyebrows and half around his nose. How, I pondered, did he get a La Praline truffle on an eyebrow? God only knows. Each of us sat, silent, each of us guilty until I whispered, barely audible, the single question.

“Has anyone tried those…those…those…” I did not need to continue. Each colleague knew what I was asking.

“Weren’t they lovely?” interrupted Maria.

“Brilliant,” said Tony.

“Gorgeous,” added Karl and then all heads began to nod.

“Remarkable,” added Albert.

You see, humans are chocoholics from outset. It is, I am certain, our natural and evolutionary state. And The Box? Not a hope. Resistance is pointless. Just let the chocolate flow.