Torture by Bacon

My morning walk takes me past a house where breakfast of choice is bacon. Every day. Every - single - day. Even on a wet and windy day like today, with every house buttoned up against the weather, the smell of frying bacon stretches out, through the letterbox, across the front lawn, and all the way down the road. It's enough to drive you mad. One day, I'm going to turn up on their doorstep with an empty plate and a pleading look. It'll serve them right for torturing me every morning.

So when I sat down at my desk this morning, tummy rumbling and thoughts of bacon resolutely fixed in my head, the story I found on the Mail's website was almost too much to bear. It's the story of a beautiful model train. It's absolutely stunning, every detail exquisitely rendered, each part as close to technical perfection as possible. So why, I hear you ask, did it excite such a reaction in me? The entire thing, right down to the fruit in the bowl in one of the carriages, is made of chocolate.

The rumbles from my stomach are now practically deafening. Bacon. Chocolate. Bacon. Chocolate. Coming soon to a social networking site near you: a photo of me gnawing determinedly on a corner of my desk.