The day the tigers- I mean, the cake, broke free.

Happy birthday to Mo-Balls, who is getting old.

So yesterday I made a cake and was killed execution-style with an icing gun.

Today the cake tried The Great Escape.

I've been zipping all over York today (I've been on a bus six times, my life expectancy has dropped to 50, those people do not smell healthy). At 9.30am I bussed down to the surgery and was given shiny-happy-pills which have made me go strange already because the side effects include falling into a coma, stroke, heart attacks and moments of extreme ecstasy but so far I'm just hyper has anything and breathing funny. Seriously, I'm typing so fast I have to keep going back over everything I've written to correct it all.

I got home and packed the cake into a bag, I donned on my favourite (not mine) boots which are awful for walking in (as shoes, that's a pretty big issue) but never mind and took off to school to see my brethren.

I got down the steps to my house in one piece.

I walked towards the ran and was halted by a loud metallic bang which snagged the attention of most people on the street, and the bag flew up in my hand like a big weight had been taken off it.

The first thing I noticed was that the cake tin was on the floor.

The second thing? It was upsidedown.

Third thing: Buggerbuggerbuggerbuggerbugger...

I looked around, Walmgate wasn't particularly busy but there were still enough people who saw me debating whether or not to leave the cake behind or bend down to pick it up sheepishly. I did pick it up. Eventually.

I didn't get a chance to check it over before school (I was running late... angry messages on the phone from BFF Main Gay.5 aplenty) but 'hell in a handbasket' was close.

Still, I got praise for a bad job done well that made it all worthwhile.

Have a nice weekend.