It seemed such a good idea. I was going to get up early and bake a cake before the sun got too hot.

And I did get up early(ish).

But the morning ticked on. And I'm not a domestic goddess; I'm more of a domestic tortoise because everything takes ages and I make a terrible mess.

I'm well under way when I discover that I don't possess the right size of cake tin for the recipe. Should I run up the road to buy a new one ... no, no, it'll all squash in. And it's an excuse for allowing myself to eat some of the cherries.

It was lunchtime before the cake got in the oven. I'm covered in flour. I've never been what domestic science teachers call a neat worker.

I've just found a glacé cherry trodden into the floor. How did that happen?

I've cleaned out the mixing-bowl. My mum used to say that if I ate it all, there'd be nothing left to go in the cake. I don't think you're ever too old to scrape basins and lick the wooden spoon.

I'm still waiting for that cake to come out of the oven. (My oven's a slow one, too.)

There'll be warm cherry cake for tea.

Wish my mum was here to have a slice with me.