Let them Eat Burnt Cake

I am doing my social duty this morning and going to one of those Macmillan Coffee morning things. This is normally something that I avoid like the plague since they seem to be dominated by small children, and parents talking about small children, however one of the book club asked me to come 'cos she is selling her fabulous cards there and wants moral support. I still put her through the wringer to get me to agree.

Only after she had sobbed, rended her hair and begged a lot did I wearily agree to attend my idea of rural hell. She recovered from her emotional breakdown remarkably quickly (I suspect I might have been conned by the best) and then casually mentioned that I would just have to make a cake and bring some money along. AAarrgh. The trap was sprung. I wriggled, I squealed, I said ouch a lot but there was no freeing me. I was stuck.

So I had a long day yesterday with an 8 hour meeting and 4 hours of driving. I can't really say I was in the mood to be a domestic goddess when I got home - more like a domestic slob who watched Bones on television and fell asleep on the sofa. However, I set to. I threw flour around the kitchen and broke eggs. I softened, I whisked, I folded. I lobbed the tin of coffee cake mix into the oven and I forgot that my oven thermostat has gone on permanent holiday.

I have one of those oven thermometers in the hope of dealing with this. When I put the cake in the oven, the needle was loitering on 180 which was ok but despite not touching a dial, the oven temperature steadily climbed. I tried turning it down, I left the door open, I shouted at it, all to no avail. By the time the cake was ready to come out, the oven was ready to melt glass.

The cake looks good - but then so do ceramic models of cake and this is very nearly one of those. I put a sander on the drill and sanded off the outer crust so that a knife could actually penetrate the damn thing and then smothered the remaining volcanic crust in icing.

Now I just have to transport the thing over 30 miles of moorland round and mountain lanes without it rolling towards me and breaking my leg and then I can have my revenge on my duplicious friend. Let them eat cake.....

Covered in strimmer fuel and vexed

There are days when being single is intensively irritating. Yesterday was one of them. Having got back from my meetings I decided to tackle the forest known as my garden. Out came the strimmer. Now this is a pretty straightforward piece of kit. you fill it up. Fiddle with the choke for ten minutes to get it running and then cut everything in site. My much loved strimmer has worked beautifully for many years now but yesterday, for no reason at all. It leaked it's fuel everywhere and 5 minutes of strimming used up an entire tank of fuel. Why? why would the cap start leaking for no reason at all and how the hell do I fix it??? If I was a Blue Peter presenter I would probably know how a judicious use of a loo roll and some double sided sticky tape could fix the thing and turn it into a hobby horse. However I don't even have a Blue Peter Badge. No hope there.

Then I had the book club over for supper. Due to a failure to believe my watch, the kitchen clock and the radio I was not remotely ready when everyone arrived. In fact I was sitting on the sofa, covered in strimmer fuel and getting aggravated about the fact that I have to do everything to keep my life (and strimmer) running, and can blame nobody else when stuff doesn't happen.

In addition there is nobody to notice when I do get round to doing stuff. I hate that part of being single. Probably if I was loved up/shacked up/stuck in an unhappy relationship, my other half wouldn't notice my labours anyway but at least I could get cross with them for not noticing, and for not helping themselves. Then I could give them the strimmer to swear at.

Definitely one of those harder days.

David Bellamy's heaven

So, I'm back from my holiday but that information seems to be top secret as my phone has scarcely rung all day. Well, both my sisters and my brother rang but that hardly counts. So I should be seizing this blessed moment of calm to get a scythe and fight my way into the garden but i can't be bothered. It's too much like hard work and will only show me how much more hard work I should be doing in order to have a space around the house that Monty Don could smile on, rather than one that David Bellamy can hide in. This seems to be partly due to the fact that the last bit of work I did before I went which was weedkilling which seems to have had a stimulating effect on all the plants I wanted to kill as they have thrived whilst I was away and I now can't see past the weeds to the trees.............

in addition, the book club that we set up in a drunken moment in the depths of winter is due to meet at my house tomorrow night. I have no food other than two old bananas and no real urge to drive the 50 mile round trip to the supermarket. There's no escaping it though. That is what I am going to have to do. I have read the books though thanks to the holiday of doing nothing (MM Kaye Shadow of the Moon and TH White Sword in the Stone - both old favourites).

So, rather than unpack my grotty suitcase, mop the floor in the kitchen in an attempt to pretend that I am a good housefrau, make bread from scratch (as if), weed the garden, cut the lawn or generally use my time usefully I am spending the day writing this and reading everyone elses blogs (Katyboo as ever and Wife in the North out of curiousity).

At the end of the day I shall be cross with myself for getting nothing done. No win situation unless I get off my keyboard and leave the office for the wilds of wales that lurk outside the door.