Today one of my lady loves and I adventured into the countryside for a utopic spring picnic surrounded by big trees and trickling streams.

There were baby animals hopping excitedly around us, fascinated by their new surroundings. We got really lost on a windy dirt road, but we didn’t even care.

We ate coconut damper and salted caramel, apple and haloumi salad while sipping fresh pineapple and beetroot juice. 

Perhaps it is nostalgic memories of my childhood, or post teenage metabolism denial ("It's totally fine, I am now just going to sleep off this entire pizza."). Whatever it is, ice cream makes me happy.

I hate to liken myself to a creature that spends 80 per cent of its day licking its own feet, but that look of pleasure a cat gets when being pat behind the ear - that is me eating ice cream.

I have an ice cream routine that sees me coming back time and  time again for that sweet, sweet, cool rush of gooey goodness. Every day in fact. 

So is ice cream addictive? Absolutely.