ell I am a bit of a chocolate junkie,’ you admit.

‘Chocolate!’ the kid says. ‘That’s really original. Chocolate! That’s what everyone says.’

‘Yes but I’m not just a chocolate junkie. I live on it—well, when I can get it. My perfect day is Coco Pops for breakfast, a Kit Kat for morning tea, Nutella sandwiches and a Choc Wedge for lunch, a Mars Bar and a chocolate milk shake for afternoon tea . . .’

‘Stop, stop!’ the kid yells. He is starting to look a little green. ‘I believe you, but you’re making me sick. You are an addict. You could be the most severe case I’ve ever seen.’

‘Well thank you,’ you say.

‘OK,’ he says. ‘As it happens I do have a few connections in the chocolate industry. Keep an eye on your locker. You might get a surprise in a day or two.’

A day or two go by and you forget about what he says. You’re mainly grateful for the fact that the big guy, Cedric the bully, seems to be keeping out of your way. But on the third day, at lunchtime, you open your locker and stagger back in astonishment. It looks like a milk bar in there. There’s a stack of Caramellos, Bounties, Fantales, Snacks. There are Aero bars, Toscas, Chokitos and Cherry Ripes. There are Scorched Peanut Bars, Whispas, Nudges, Snickers and Flakes. There’s no room for any books. It’s solid chocolate, wall to wall.

You reel back in shock and slam the door shut. It’s too much to cope with. You decide to leave it there and come back after school with a wheelbarrow.