Channelled from Ino

Stacked sponge cakes, curved over at the top and with currants and berries in them, which entitles me to call them muffins. I will take my cakes to the village fete, where I will sell them, and give away any broken ones to the children.

There will be cake crumbs on the ground, which as the fete is held outside will be consumed by sparrows, and dogs puling on their leads. I will stand with a smile on my face, which may be false, for this is my ‘wholesome baker’ persona and I don’t wear it all the year round, or even on every weekend.

At home are lumps of raw dough, left over from my baking. I haven’t thrown them away. I don’t know what I shall do with them, but they are not as pleasant as the cooked article, and neither will be the use to which I will put them.

This fete is held every year in the village. The vicar organises it, together with a committee of middle-aged women. There are always too many cakes, but I make sure that all of mine are eaten, and sometimes I have a go on the coconut shy and throw coconuts at pictures of pop stars, attached to the wall. It’s a very old-fashioned custom with some creative modern takes on it, and I particularly like the version in our village. The only improvement would be instead to have photographs of the villagers.