So the younger daughter, in a fit of niceness (one of 7 in her 25 years) decided to have a ‘coffee morning’ in aid of McMillan Cancer. An amazing organisation who, as we sadly know from the last years of my mum’s life, give the most incredible support to people who need it, and do virtually anything to make things easier.
Anyway, Rachie, ‘coffee morning’, McMillan. Come along, drink coffee, eat a cake, give us 20 quid for charity and piss off. That’s the deal. We’ve all been there.
But a coffee ‘morning’ is an unlikely event for that daughter because she doesn’t normally get in from Saturday night until about lunchtime Sunday. So factor in a little sleep… quick shower… and the coffee morning has to become an afternoon tea. Fine.
We’d been signed up to bake a cake. No problemo. I love making cakes. Ok, I love eating cake mixture, same difference. Because I’ll always be in with an ‘I’ll help!!!’ when cake is involved. Help being somewhat ambiguous in this context.
Then we get a call last week: “there’s about 25 coming to the morning-in-the-afternoon, don’t have sufficient seating in my flat; can I have it at your house?” Not a question. Just a politely worded statement. I’M HAVING IT THERE. Oh… ok then…
In my particularly male-orientated world, if you’re having 25 people round hurling cake around, there’s no point clearing up the place first, you’ll only have to do it again afterwards. No? But Mel’s different; she doesn’t think like a proper man, I worry sometimes. And we got the tea pots and the spare extra kettles and got some fruit and…
They’re coming at 3. “What time are you coming over”, Mel asked the daughter. To help ‘prepare’, get all ready and all the et ceteras that women understand. “Quarter to 3” was the reply. Which turned out to be 4 minutes to 3. About 45 seconds before the first bus-load of mates arrived, cakes in hand.
They all came, a truly fab bunch of girls, (no men invited; only me, not so much invited as part of the furniture), who all brought loads of cakes, brownies, cookies, flap-jacks, biscuits… and ate fruit. Only fruit.
When they departed a few wonderful (but sooooo fucking noisy) hours later, all the fruit was gone. All the cakes untouched. As if a flock of gluten intolerant bats had descended. Or just calorie conscious babes, perhaps.
I’m going to work, I need a rest.
Happy Monday
A xxxx
I didn’t mention the football in any Middlesboro’ kind’a way, out of deference to you. Ok, truth be told, I knew we were playing some northern lot but didn’t think it necessary to discover which one. Long as we won, who cares? Who said London fans were arrogant?
And I can’t be accountable for what my daughter’s mates read. Or even if they can read. Its only an an an analogie. Innit.
A x
P.S. Don’t mention the football…
“As if a flock of gluten intolerant bats had descended.” Andy – that is a glorious sentence. I can only hope your daughter’s friends don’t read it though.