Have you ever had one of those moments where you offer to do something and then immediately regret your decision? This morning, I did just that.
I called my Mum for our weekly catch-up; 'how's it going in London', 'What have you been up to this week?', 'Is M.D Underwood treating you with a bit more respect yet?' – you know, the usual mother/daughter chat. Except this week, Mum has been frantic with preparing for my sister's birthday celebrations this weekend.
My parents are going all out for her 21st and have sent invitations to family and friends I haven't seen since I was at school. Everything has been organised to precision (if you wonder where I get it from…), except she forgot one tiny detail – the cake.
So guess who, in the spare of the moment with the intention to stop her poor Mum from worrying any further, offered to bake the cake at last minute? Me.
So here I am, flour-covered, flustered and on my second attempt at baking Mary Berry's Strawberry Cake (I opened the oven door on the first attempt and watched my glorious creation drop in the centre like a sinkhole). I am eating the remnants of said cake to try and calm my nerves, so the new diet, along with my patience, is ruined. Every time I look over at the brand new piping bag and nozzle that I am yet to use, I am filled with dread. I can only hope that my many years of binge-watching The Great British Bake Off will finally pay off.
Anyway, I must sign off so I can prepare the buttercream. It's already 10pm and the last thing I want to be doing is piping flowers onto a cake. I've also just received an interesting text from Whizz (whom, I'll admit, I've been avoiding since her relationship with Curly was announced):
'Long time no speak. I miss you! Can we catch up next week over cocktails?'