So this morning I looked in the mirror at the rolls of flab I have cascading over my belt buckle and thought ‘Screw it! Time to get in shape!” Nevermind that the Silly Season is starting. Nevermind that oddles of sweets, cakes, puddings and roasty dinners are on the way – to say nothing of the vats of wine and beer – it’s time to shed some pounds. And as if on cue, this arrived:
The postman brought me a a gut-fattening barrage of cake. Nice Postman!
A ton of cupcakes. I can’t toss them because I’ll hear my mother intoning “Think Of The Starving Children”. Â This is why my other half’s office is in for a treat tomorrow.
Professionally-made cakes. You can tell from the exactness and attention to detail
They look rather scrumptious, don’t they? This got me to thinking that PRs who send me a lot of this stuff usually get eff-all back. This is why I’m about to trek across London with my box of cakes, what I made decorated at the weekend.
Nick-made cakes. You can tell from their lop-sided, mutant-like appearance
Okay, so they don’t look so much decorated as they do look like someone abused them with an icing gun. But hey, I made them with luuuurve!
