Good Friday, Bad Friday.

I'm not religious, but I love Good Friday, for the simple reason that hot cross buns are the best foodstuff ever invented ever. These days, Good Friday is better than ever, because the shops start selling hot cross buns about ten months in advance and continue to sell them for another couple of months after the big day. Sainsbury's hot cross buns are particularly good, and they've been selling twelve for a pound for weeks now — twelve for a pound! Joy! Were I a billionaire, I wouldn't be eating your caviar and foie gras on olive focaccia toast and sauteed lamb's liver in an apricot jus; no, I'd eat a thousand hot cross buns every day.

If it weren't for one small problem.

Hot cross buns, I have recently discovered, don't half give me wind. Such bad wind, in fact, that I've had to make the ultimate sacrifice and stop eating a dozen of them every day, in order to save my marriage. Not just the marriage, actually: even the dog was complaining. So now, despite the daily temptation waved at me by the bakeries, I only eat one or two of them now and then. Except on Good Friday. Today, I can eat as many hot cross buns as I like — in fact, it's practically an obligation.

So it's Good Friday for my taste buds and Bad Friday for anyone who comes anywhere near me. Well, religion is supposed to be about enduring hardship.