I am absolutely cream-crackered. Tuckered out. Exhausted. Weary eyelids-propped-up-with-matchsticks tired. You could, should the mood take you, assault me in safety – I feel that poking me with a sharp stick would elicit a bare twitch in response. You would have complete (albeit… transient) impunity from reprisals. Currently, I can barely lever myself out of the chair. (Hubby, upon reading this, will brighten like the sun, because I have A) mentioned poking, and B) de facto, told him I am unable to fight him off tonight.) Bugger me, I’ve been busy. I have even been too busy to access the net – which has been fortuitous, because our wifi has been on the intermittent blink. I have Missed You All Terribly. It’s been nearly two whole days!

The result of all this frenzied busy-ness has been a clean house (downstairs, at any rate… and I simply cannot describe, and am too embarrassed to photo-illustrate, how revoltingly crud-crusted it was previously) and a house full of cake. My oven was going like a furnace yesterday; by the time today’s charity coffee morning rolled around – I couldn’t even look a slice of sodding cake in the eye. Perchance that was because I was on my knees with fatigue, but more likely because I’d licked the insides of SO GODDAMMED MANY cake bowls yesterday, that even my capacity for saturated fat had been breached. I was full to the brim (I have a wide brim, people) of butter, caster sugar, eggs and self-raising flour.




There will be those of you who recognise the (losing) washing-line and crib cake on the left. It has sat forlornly in a tupperware box since early September. I brought it out today for adulation (balm, wounds, etc) before giving it to my FIL, who will thoroughly appreciate the 3 solid inches of marzipan – although not so much the tiny burnt biscuit cake which it surrounds. I was going to make another washing-line affair for the Bliss cake, but ran out of time. Hence the random scattering of small items-in-icing-with-holes in.


By lunchtime, I had recovered my naturally greedy disposition sufficiently to sample a bit of the coconut & lime cake that I had never made before; I am now listlessly – because lifting hand to mouth takes effort, yes? – nibbling my second flapjack.

Hubby and Harry worked rather less hard, and ate rather more cake.

Yes, the fist grasping the coffee wedge is Hubby’s.





The pair of gluttons have voraciously consumed so much sugar today that they are now totally wired


and want to go out clubbing. Or something.

I’m going to soak in the bath now, and then, fireworks or not, I am going to sleep. Thanks in great part to my dear old Dad’s sublime raffle-ticketing skills, there is now a pot with £278 quid in it – with a promise of some more to trickle in next week.

I shall sleep happy. T’was worth it.

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