I'm all caked out.

My house stinks of cake.
God forbid you buy a house that permanently smells of baking. After a while its just plain sickly.
Luckily Phils paint is wafting through the house bringing its sugary sticky bake-y smell down an arrogant notch or two. Hey! Smell me! I'm, like, so tasty!
Mol often says we should open a cafe in our front room. Then we'd have cake all the time! Brilliant! And lots of people in the front room enjoying our cake (but it's my cake! I'd be the one making it! All day! Have you really thought this business plan through thoroughly oh-6-year-old-business-tycoon?)... (oh, and by the way, who'd do all the post-baking-washing up, the extra shopping, the ridiculous amount of sticky-putting-teaspoons of mixture in to godamned idiotically flimsy cup-cake holders? Who'd then have to do all the post-cafe-crumbs-off-floor-sweep? Eh? Moi?)! But Mum, it'd be like a fantastic bakery.
I love the enthusiasm, but given that Mol can't even work out weighing scales I feel it could be a one-sided-project. And there'd be the problem of where the TV would go if the front room was a cafe? So, where would I get to relax after a long day feeding people cake, adding to the NHS obesity bill - where would my Enders Relaxation Period take place? What about me in this whole thing? Not wanting to piss on the child's bonfire I tread carefully around the subject and suggest we wait a bit until Beth is big enough to use a dustpan and brush without causing undue harm to those around her. Seems a fair-enough deal.
So. The morning has been spent making ten tones of the most beautiful brownies and some unending quantity of fairy cakes. Phil has quality checked the brownies. He's not dead so that's a good sign.
My feet ache like I've done a hike up some mountain in flip-flops. I'm not cut out for standing more than a few hours at a time. Must. Go. Put. Feet. Up. Celery. Give me something Non-Sweet to negate the smells...