Its tropical here in London today. Don’t know what its like in Scotland but I’d guess at miserable. For 45% of the population anyway. Its cloudy here, a little rainy, though not enough to keep superheroes like me and Spurs Paul off the tennis courts, however slippery they may become. (for ‘superhero’; read: ‘idiot’). But its hot. Horribly, damply, muggily, nastily stuffy and humid. Tropical. Without the need for going anywhere.

So last night as I woke up at 5.30 to visit the toilet (well, if you will drink that cup of tea before bedtime…). I was attending to matters, with my eyes closed, as I do. I’m capable of aiming with eyelids down. And if not I’ll just blame someone else. Though in house full of women that’s an interesting conversation. Anyway, eyes closed, taking a pee. And there was a flash of light. Ignore, I’m going back to sleep. Then another. Visible through my eyelids. Hmmmm. Brain tumour? Retinal detachment?? Haemorrhage??? Haemorrhoids?? Oh no, I’m going to die. Or need an operation where no-one wants an operation.

Oh, its just lightning. That’s ok. Loads of it. We were flashing each other. Me and the lightning. I gave up first and went back to sleep. Had to be up in 2 hours for Tai Chi. We don’t allow lightning in the dojo.

But last night we watched the Bake Off. I will say that I watched it to keep Rachie company. Or that there was no football on. Or that I would have been out attacking ISIS or brawling in Glasgow or finding loose women. But no. Bake Off. And I hate to admit but I love it. I find myself getting really attached to the bakers. I love them. In their own individual ways. Not in just a kind of Megan Fox way. I love food. And I’ve found that if there are times when its best not to be eating it, then watching it is almost as good. And I feel for their plight. When the dough won’t rise. Don’t you hate that? Ok, I’ve never made dough in my life. Why would you when M&S do such a good job. Yet these stars make it from, like, flour and stuff. Amazing. Then they bake it. Would you Adam’n’Eve it. And Mary Berry tells everyone how good they’ve been, how well they’ve done, how super it might have been, if only they’d just…

Then Fat Paul Hollywood, dressed in flowing denim shirt that hasn’t been washed since he bought it in 1973, criticises the bakers and complains of ‘underbaking’ and ‘under-proving’ and under virtually everything but a bus. I think he’s an Arsenal fan.

Last night (well it was recorded) Kate left the show. I loved Kate. There’ll never be another. Until next week. I cried along with her and Mary Berry.

I may never go back into the kitchen again.

Happy baking

A xxxx