I'm waiting for a cake to bake.
I might have mentioned Dave, who works with us, and it's his 21st birthday tomorrow. I thought I'd make him a cake. I bought the ingredients and had it all planned and then forgot until 10 o'clock tonight. Which is why I'm sitting here blogging instead of being in bed sleeping.
Having already mentioned, or implied at least, the state of my wardrobe shelf, I wonder if I should tell you about the cupboard above my eye-level oven. Ah well, you probably already have an idea of what sort of woman I am. So, do any of you have the sort of cupboard that necessitates you having to put your hand over your head before opening it ... just in case?
The thing is that I keep all my baking tins above the oven so it's not nice if they fall out. On my head. Or clatter noisily to the floor.
It's not entirely my fault (I am not quite of the faultless generation). Baking tins come in all sorts of shapes and sizes; it's very difficult to stack them neatly.
And I still haven't decided what to do with this chafing dish.
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Talking to someone today I discovered that we have a mutual acquaintance in Nigel Jenkins. He is poet with a deep, resonant, Welsh, musical voice.
He was one of the tutors on my writing course and I had occasion to read aloud a short story I had written. It included the phrase 'the skin on the rice pudding', about which Nigel made some comment. Later, talking with other women on the course, we all agreed that we had never realised it was possible for skin on rice pudding to sound sexy.