I have become an addict. A gelato aficionado who counts down the hours until I can justify a second slurping session of ice-cream for the day.
Double scoop both sessions. And yes, with chocolate drizzle and whipped cream.
I have gone rogue on my family and abandoned them to most likely kill each other this week as I write this from Athens.
Do not hate me. I am propping up the dismal Greek economy one gelato at a time.
I am perched at a square little table covered in a blue and white checked tablecloth.
I am surrounded overhead by grapevine canopies and crumbling terracotta rooftop cafes and bars as a Greek man plays a guitar.
The Acropolis and its awesome monolithic marble columns are leaning into the clouds in the horizon.
It is a world for hedonists. The white linens. The fresh food. The endless shops of jewellery. The carafes of white wine.
But my euros seems to be disappearing at a rapid rate every day at the gelato shops.
Flavours here are varied and some of the more unusual ones include hazelnut, quince, ouzo, fig and pistachio.
My bottom gets bigger just thinking about it.
And the cones! The waffle cones are dipped in chopped nuts and chocolate or hundreds and thousands.
Eating a gelato is an experience. A very joyful one.
People of all ages walk down the alleyway looking so excited with their purchase.
Lovers walk hand in hand with that contented look you only achieve when you are with the love of your life – and ice-cream.
Remember that scene from The Notebook when Rachel McAdams licked ice-cream off Ryan Gosling’s nose? How could we forget?
And what about Audrey Hepburn hitting the gelato shop in Roman Holiday as part of her secret few days of sucking the marrow out of life.
I have become friends with Tasos the gorgeous young Greek guy who serves up the scoops of cold cuisine for my daily hits.
Tasos laughs every time I enter his gorgeous little shop and shouts out in his cheeky voice, “The Aussie ice-cream curvy mummy is back again!”
As a child some of my happiest memories are of mum buying me a single soft serve cone from the Mr Whippy van.
We would run into the street in our terry towelling shorts hoping desperately the truck would not drive off.
When I was 18, I had an older guy take me on a date to Mossimos ice-cream shop at Noosa.
I thought he knew everything after this and was so suave, clearly worldly.
For 20 years, one of my best friends and I have tried to heal broken hearts and celebrated successes by sitting together and splitting a tub of chocolate rocky road ice-cream.
And my kids will clean up the toy room just on the promise of a bowl of ice-cream for dessert. It is a powerful food.
Perhaps Donald Trump and Kim Jong-un need to just go out for some ice-cream to create world peace.
