Lemon Drizzle

It is the school cake sale again and with it comes the usual baking request. I shudder at the thought, given baking is low down on my skill base. I blame it on my school domestic science teacher who sent me packing from her class for a “shameful” white sauce.

With the baking deadline looming, I turn my attention to the cake. I pass the three-year-old and the baby into the capable hands of Big Cook Little Cook and begin turning to my reliable Lemon Drizzle recipe that requires minimum equipment and effort. I realise I am out of eggs and quickly dash out to the hen house to find Hilda sitting on her nest. “Hurry up,” I say wondering what speeds the egg laying process up. A little later she comes up trumps and produces a very small warm egg but needs must.

The baby is now screaming so I strap him to my front in the faithful papoose. I continue with my baking jiggling up and down to calm him down. Whilst singing Rock-a-Bye-Baby I realise I have added plain rather than self-raising flour. Oh well flour is flour after all. It will still taste good I think to myself. I wait by the Aga knowing full well that with my post-natal memory loss I am bound to forget about the sponge until 5am tomorrow. Then the phone rings. It is a friend who wants to chat through some crucial lift sharing arrangements. Just as my call ends the doorbell rings. A cheery man hands me the Border Terrorist who he spotted taking herself for a walk down the road.

Then I suddenly remember the Lemon Drizzle. I dash to the Aga and pull out my cake tin. Inside is a rather limp slice of dark brown sponge. It certainly lacks its self-raising status and resembles a piece of over cooked toast. With no more egg-laying hens and a screaming baby I decide to sprinkle it with sugar, wrap it in cellophane and slap a label on using my neatest handwriting. I wonder whether I should rename it “Lemon Biscuit Cake.”

At the cake sale I notice my Lemon Drizzle sitting in prime position in the centre of the table. I wonder whether to buy it myself but opt for the very fluffy looking coffee cake beside it. Before I leave I go back to the stall and discover the table empty apart from a few jam tarts and - a lonely Lemon Drizzle. My daughter says loudly, “Mummy, your cake is still there.” I’m ready to head for the door. Thankfully I hear later that the Lemon Drizzle was finally sold – to my faithful friend, Capable Karen who has come to my rescue once again.

A Date at Ikea

“I’ve decided to take a few days off,” says my husband casually. “Perhaps we should spend the day together without the children.” Great idea I think to myself seeing as most of our conversation these days is dominated by sleep deprivation and whose turn it is to take out the rubbish. Thankfully Granny also thinks it is a good idea and nervously agrees to have the children despite it being half term and Grandpa being away on business.

The day before our big break my husband asks if I have booked a nice restaurant and were we going for a gentle walk along the Dorset coastline? “We’re going to Ikea,” I mutter. “WHAT?” he shrieks. “We spend our first day on our own together in years and we’re going to Ikea.” I spend the rest of the day convincing him that an Ikea trip is something you just cannot do with children and I needed some support in deciding upon my toy storage unit. After much convincing he reluctantly agrees to the trip on the condition that he does not have to go near an Allen key.

As we pull into the car park he says, “We need to stay focused in here.” It is clear he does not share my joy of mulling over different storage styles without children and straying off the shopping list. At the entrance we are greeted by the first Ikea-dressed sitting room. My husband’s eyes light up at the size of the plasma television nestled into smart high-tech media shelving. He reclines on the L-shaped leather sofa, puts his feet up on the perfectly parked poof and closes his eyes. I sit down next to him and start chatting about the Christmas holidays. We spend the next few hours walking from room to room in a distinctly unfocused way lying on sofas and generally catching up on the past few months. We even browse through the toy boxes arm in arm.

We witness a number of other couples bickering over the choice of clip frames, however we remain positively calm during our Ikea experience. In fact, in a strange way we affectionately rekindled our relationship amongst the storage boxes and array of tea lights at Ikea. As we pull out of the car park with the car bulging with boxes, my husband says, “That was great. We must come here again soon.”

Paddington Comes to Visit

The three-year-old comes bounding excitedly out of pre-school. He is clutching Paddington Bear and a small brown suitcase. “We’ve got Paddington for the weekend,” he shrieks. His teacher hands me a book explaining that it is Paddington’s Diary and that each child takes it in turns to have him for a few days. “How lovely,” I remark, thinking to myself, “Help, not more responsibility.”

In the car my little boy busily straps Paddington into his car seat. At home he runs upstairs and unpacks his suitcase, which consists of a yellow toothbrush.

When the other children get home, they are equally excited at having a visitor for the weekend. He sits on his own chair at teatime, beside the bath at bath time and then snuggles up beside the three-year-old at bedtime.

Later I turn to the diary sitting on the side. It is full of entries from other families, accompanied by photos of smiling happy faces enjoying beach trips, visits to Father Christmas and other treats. I did not think our weekend would remotely live up to Paddington’s previous visits, particularly given tomorrow was our weekly supermarket shop. The next day, Paddington sits in the trolley being pushed up and down supermarket aisles. I am told that apparently he can only eat Penguins, Wotsits and Jaffa Cakes. My shop budget is blown by his visit.

During the weekend, Paddington joins us for a rugby match on Sunday. He cheers from the touchline alongside the other children. As we leave the pitch I realise he is missing. I am told he went to relieve himself earlier behind a nearby tree. I rummage behind the bushes and discover him staring up at me, still clutching his small brown brolly.

That night, Paddington once more decides to disappear. We launch a full scale Bear Hunt searching high and low for the small brown bear. I begin to hyperventilate at the thought of telling the teacher that Paddington is missing. Suddenly the biddable Labrador prods me with her nose. From the corner of her mouth, I spot something blue. We wrench her jaws open and there is Paddington nestled comfortably beside a large wet tongue. Thank goodness we have found him and all intact. Tomorrow it is back to pre-school and safely into the hands of another family.