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Thursday, 30 March 2017

In which one fails...

Yesterday, feeling relatively normal, pour moi anyway, I ventured into the galley to create a cake.

The Admiral and his carer were due one of his increasingly rare forays beyond the secure unit and were visiting for afternoon tea.

One, wishing to appear 'on it' googled Scary Cherry's Victoria Sandwich.

The receipt promised enough mixture for two seven inch cake tins. They lied, so I bunged in an extra egg and wanged the meagre mixture into a single tin.

Like a seasoned Bake Off contestant, I took up residence on the floor, next the oven, to watch it rise. (Tis entirely possible to see through the oven door since I discovered that evil potion that not only removes centuries of grime but three layers of epidermis.)

Any road up, it rose spectacularly in the centre and sported, what looked like suppurous boils all over, giving it the appearance of an over Sun-kissed tit.

Waiting for it to cool, I embarked upon the butter cream.
Unlike the cake mix quantity, there was enough butter cream to weld together the contents of Greggs front window display.

Slicing the top off the tit cake I slathered a goodly amount inside, with a bit of raspberry jam (mould scraped off) and plonked it on Nana's cake stand.

There was sufficient butter cream left to plug a hole in the back wall, satiate the sweet tooth of Chester the visiting cat, fill the cracks in the gable end and still have enough left to smother Lovely Gordon from head to toe, awaiting One licking it off at One's leisure.

Upon sight of the badly listing sponge, the Admiral guffawed. A foolish move in itself, but he carried on digging by opining...

'Cor blimey! Can you imagine what S's wife J would say if she saw that! She'd say: well, you tried, but leave the baking to me and you stick with the painting.'

Now, that is committing a Cardinal Sin, Dear Reader: defiling the culinary efforts of one's significant other in favour of those of the wife of a chum.

Having bitten One's tongue to the point of severance on many an occasion when the sainted J was imagined as Star Baker every week until that eventual crowning as winner, One was incandescent with rage.

One, making do with a bottom of the range Belling, housed in a cupboard, sans window or extractor fan, laughingly referred to as a 'kitchen' whilst One's nemesis has an Aga, a feck off enormous gas cooker, all housed in a huge farmhouse kitchen, does One's level best to conjure up culinary delights against all the odds.

Seething with resentment, One turned One's heliotrope hued face away and set about making a pot of tea.

The milk had gone sour and I'd forgotten to buy any tea...


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