I have always gobbled down my Easter egg: I still do. This year’s — albeit modest in size — egg didn’t even make it downstairs. I ate the whole thing in bed. My sister was the polar opposite. She’d keep hers for weeks— even months— on end, which drove me mad. So one day, I crept into her room, removed the egg from its box, ate the back half of the chocolate shell, wrapped up the other half and placed it back in the box, seemingly undisturbed. All hell broke out when my crime was discovered.