Another week, another birthday, I noted, waiting for my porridge in the microwave. Not my birthday; one of my statistically likely colleagues. He set a puzzle in his 'cakes in the kitchen' email:
"Twas my birthday on Saturday, for the puzzle fans, my age now matches the short form of my birthyear."
I came within a whisker of wishing him a very happy 108th birthday but I don't know him well enough for that kind of mathematical humour. And anyway, it doesn't quite work does it?
Surprisingly, the selection of chocolate cakes he brought in has disappeared... within an hour.
One hour on a Monday morning! Who's eating great wedges of sticky chocolate cake first thing on a Monday morning? Does nobody have breakfast any more?
Having said that, it's not exactly a grizzly morning. The sun is beaming through the translucent green leaves and the sky is the pearly blue of early summer. In fact, my heart was singing as I drove through the leafy tree tunnel at the top of Sulham Hill this morning. The dappled shade flicked across the road as the liquid sunlight poured through the leaves.
If you ask me, cake is, and has always been, an afternoon thing. It follows sandwiches and it precedes a cup of tea.
Call me old-fashioned if you like but it just seems odd to scoff it in the morning. The taste, the texture, the thick, sticky consistency, it's not for the morning.
I wedged a spoon upright into my porridge and carried it back to my desk.
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