Cake Hangover.

Yesterday. The School Fete.
After 4hours (12pm - 4pm) pretty much none-stop (two loo breaks don't really count?) of cutting up cakes, picking up cakes, putting cakes into little bags, serving ice-cream-cones, cutting up watermelon, peeling lollies from sticky wrappers, then cutting up more cakes, whilst surrounded by swarms of children clammy in the heat, all poking at the cakes, reaching and poking and pushing and jostling - my fingers transformed into one gigantic sticky piece of human sellotape.

Towards the end of the fete as I rummaged in my (now I know what it feels like to be Stacy on the market with a money-apron! Come on! Tenna for this tacky mini-skirt!) money-apron for change my hands would come out with huge clumps of money stuck to them, like dead flies on the tape in an unhygenic restaurant kitchen.
If I worked the cake stall for 4hours, how many cakes were there to start with? I'd like to say THOUSANDS of cakes but that'd be more than on a Sainsbury's shelf (not that I count the number of cakes on a Sainsbury's shelf). Hundreds, perhaps.
But as of yesterday I vowed I never wanted to make taste cut handle sell bag up another bleedin' cake again. EVER. Unless its for a member of my family on their birthday. Just the word cake which in fact used to be my most favorite word to roll around my mouth - now my fingers start to tingle in an anti-stick-panic and my stomach sort of wants to turn itself inside out. Maybe what I am experiencing is a cake-hangover. Maybe by tomorrow I will be back on cake.
The best thing about yesterday was that my very quickly whipped up banana-cake (whilst totally ignoring my wrestling children somewhere upstairs, screaming and kicking about completely hating each other for 1/2hour) won the Best Cake Contest. I think I get a certificate (definitely framing that one - much better than a degree) from Patience, the school cook who judged the competition. After I slipped her a tenner I knew the prize was mine. Ha ha ha! All mine! I'm THE cake maker... (queue strange power-fueled-psycho voice).
(No, honestly I didn't slip her a tenner. I'm not that loaded! £10! Couldn't even have slipped her a one-er...)
And that was basically my experience of the School Fete. A wholesome get together of the local communi-dee a lot of burgers (we had some banter, us cake-ladies and the burger-boys... yeah. Like, can we borrow some change lads? or hey, fancy a free bun, men-with-metal-spatula's...? -you know, that sort of hilarious off the cuff improvisation) some singing from the (sweet) children, some dancing from the (sweet) children and some (sweet) children in my face for 4hours demanding ice-creams, cakes (NOT that one, THIS ONE), ice-lollies (sorry they've all run out) and watermelon. And fingers like human-sellotape.
Hey! Put me on the rosta for next year!