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My middle daughter is eight. She wanted a butterfly cake – it was a beautiful thing, all green and yellow and glittery. I didn’t bake it (more on that later).I got a professional to craft it and proudly presented it to the kids, candles glowing, tears of nostalgia in my eyes as we sang to our beautiful Daisy-girl.

The husband got out his camera to take a photo, at the exact moment our youngest daughter picked the pink wormy icing-caterpillar off the middle of it
and bit it in half.

“Mum!” Daisy shouted, outraged and horrified, “Bliss has bitten the willy off.”

There was no willy on the cake I made. I found a recipe on Twitter for an 'easy' chocolate-banana loaf. I followed the recipe to the letter and ended up with a heavy burnt brick, which I took along to lunch at a friend’s house.

After the delicious lunch she made, I gamely hacked into the ‘loaf’ and dropped a slab on her plate. I need to say at this point, I did only use a pinch of salt, but I only had pink Himalayan crystals to hand. Forget chocolate and banana. All you could taste was sodium and chloride.

My lovely friend Pam gamely tried to solider on through a second bite, but I stopped her. “Don’t do it” I gasped as the salt crystal soaked up the last of my mouth’s moisture. “It’s lovely” she croaked back “I just need……. water.” She went to the sink and downed two pints before girding her loins for another go.

Salty tears of shame filled my eyes as I watched my darling friend determined to be polite.

I grabbed the plate away at the last minute and marched it over to the bin. She flapped her hands in protest, still unable to do more then croak. I decided then and there I’m never baking a cake for anyone again, unless I don’t like them.

I’m still recovering from my book launch on Saturday night. How sad is that, when I don’t even drink. All I did was some barefoot dancing and I’m still hobbling five days later. The worst thing about having a party is the fear no-one will turn up. The best thing about having a party is you get to pick the music and dance like no-one’s watching, which they aren’t, because no one turned up.

Ok, that’s not entirely true, people did turn up but there was a moment when me and Billy Idol were both dancing with ourselves uh-uh-oh.

As the evening wore on and people oiled themselves with gin, the dance floor began to fill up. At one time, three people were on there with me, throwing shapes, wiping their feet on the rhythm rug – then my phone rang, which I was using to stream my music through and the whole party came crashing to a halt.

Why do these things happen to me? There’s no need to watch soaps on the TV, I’m living one daily.

My Love Birds had five babies. I didn’t ask them too, I didn’t want them to. It must have been all the Marvin Gaye I play. Anyway, much like my family, four thrived and one didn’t. It remained small, pink and hairless as the others grew stupendous turquoise feathers and long clawed feet. It looked rather like the willy off the cake actually.


My dad told me to leave it to nature and not get involved. I agreed, then hoicked it out and took it to the vets, who snatched it off me and put it into an incubator. “I don’t fink zhere iz much chance for ziz bird, but I vill do all I can.” (She was the exotic vet). Next thing I know I’m walking out the consulting room with three sobbing children and £170 missing from my wallet.

The husband was incandescent “£170?! Are you joking? Why didn’t you just let the cat eat it?” he roared, on speaker phone, to all the vets and people waiting.

“Because I didn’t know it was going to cost me £170 to save it” I hissed back as people tutted and covered their ancient dog’s ears.

The bird, called Lucky, is still in the vets three days later, costing him £60 a day. I can only bring it home if I’m prepared to ‘crop feed’ it every two hours day and night (think how the Suffragettes were force fed) and kept with me at all times.

How am I going to crop feed a bird the size of my finger every two hours? I often forget to feed my own children more than once a day.

My dad has told the husband what to do. It involves a small stone. I’ve told the husband if he does, I’ll give him the same treatment Bliss gave the caterpillar off the birthday cake.