Easter in Paris .. it's a conspiracy

I don't want to come across as the Grinch That Stole Easter or anything, but why in God's name does the chocolate-fest have to happen two weeks after I have committed to a wife-imposed diet and exercise regime?
And why does the patisserie on the corner taunt me with its selection of home-made, ribbon-festooned, fine chocolate Easter eggs?
I'll tell you why. Because it's a conspiracy. It's a cruel twist of the knife in the side of all of us who find with the advancing years that shedding those pesky extra kilos requires a Herculean effort.
And so I sit here in the gastronomic capital of the world, staring at my bowl of sunflower seeds (and I'm sorry, it doesn't matter how you dress them up or what seasoning you put on them or how many books you read about their health benefits, sunflower seeds are for birds, not humans).

The cruel thing is, I know that a short lift ride away (yes, I know, I am supposed to take the stairs, but it's the weekend and I am spoiling myself) there are éclairs to die for, tartes abricots that dissolve on the tongue, buttery croissants and more mouth-watering pastries and cakes than you can point a set of scales at.
It is Easter afterall. And wouldn't it be sacrilege not to partake of the bounty of the Good Lord? Isn't it ordained by God himself that we should eat chocolate on Easter? Isn't the 11th commandment: "Thou shalt not deprive thyself of hand-made, ribbon-festooned, fine chcocolate Easter eggs from the neighbourhood patisserie"?
That settles it. To hell with the diet. La Durée here I come. If I don't get me a rose-flavoured La Durée macaron today, then it has been a wasted day in Paris.
And you, gentle reader, who have borne witness to my mental anguish, will surely only wish me godspeed.