This is Stephen Fry's Seven Deadly Sills.

Episode 6 Gluttony.

Hello again.

If gluttony were a country, I'd be its ambassador.

Or perhaps it's monarch, prime minister or president for life.

I was born a glutton.

Did I over-guzzle at the teeth? Did I under-guzzle?

As I say these words, I realize that I've said them before or something like them.

May I make a long arm for my index? What's in there's a good fellow.

Ah, here we are, yes indeed. The Fry Chronicles.

You haven't read it.

Oh, I'm sorry. More readable than illuminating book rarely broke the turbid surface of British publishing. You'll adore it.

There'd be a quote from a passage that describes my six or seven-year-old behaviour.

The breakfast table was where the seeds of my sorrow was sown.

I'm sure that I'm right in locating my first addiction here.

Sugar puffs were the starting link in a chain that would shackle me for most of my life.

To begin with, as you might imagine, they were a breakfast habit.

But soon I was snacking on them at any time of day until my mother began to sigh of the number of packets she was forced to buy.

I would eat the sweet pellets loose from the box, one after the other, without stopping into the mouth they would go.

I was like a movie-going American eating popcorn. Eyes glazed, hand rising and falling, pack to mouth, pack to mouth, pack to mouth like a machine.

Eyes glazed, is that important? A child at the breast or bottle has that look.

There is a sexual element to such unfocused fixity.

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