Oh, the cakes! The cakes!
Yes, indeed, we are participating in Macmillan's Great Coffee Morning down at the Heene Community Centre. Let's face it, eating cake is in a
Very Good Cause, which is my excuse for indulging in Cake Fest - and I'm sticking to it.
"Let them eat cake! " we carol, in our very best impersonation of Marie Antoinette. Though, fortunately, without the
impending threat of a guillotine hanging over our heads.
Myra, who is the esteemed convenor of our Singing for Pleasure Choir joins Margaret and me at our table where we are eagerly awaiting the arrival of
our bacon baps (soft bap for Margaret, crusty for me.) Myra is carrying a bright purple coloured smoothie in a jam jar decorated with a strawberry and a chunk of celery. So very healthy. She informs us that she heard on the TV (or maybe the radio) that just
one bacon bap a week increases the likelihood of having a heart attack by 19%. This seems somewhat far fetched but we don't argue. Myra is definitely not the kind of person you argue with, certainly not over something as, well, delicious as a bacon bap.
Margaret admits that this will be her second bacon bap as she visited the café at the Heene earlier in the week. We speculate on whether this will increase her risk of a heart attack to 38% which would have been
extremely worrying - except that our bacon baps arrive at that precise moment and they smell so good, and look so tasty.... Besides is it not a fact of modern life that we are constantly being warned that everything we enjoy is Very Very Bad For Us?
Our choir conductor The Redoubtable Muriel comes over to our table just as we are finishing our bacon baps. (We haven't allowed the 19% guillotine hanging over us to stop our enjoyment. We are risk takers. At least where
bacon baps are concerned.) Muriel hasn't been feeling well but tells us that we - and the other two choirs she leads - are her "lifeline". I pat her hand and say we are only too pleased to be her lifeline, so much pleasure does she give us.
We talk about pianos. The Redoubtable Muriel's piano was a gift from her parents some seventy years ago - it cost £35 which I suppose would have been a fortune in those days. I tell her about my dear Dad's piano, currently
being lovingly cared for by the Youngest of the Darling Daughters and her family of music makers. When she was a little lass, she and my father spent many happy hours closeted away in the room where the piano reigned, taking it in turns to tickle the ivories.
"What shall I play now, Grandad?" she used to ask him - to which he would always reply, with a wicked twinkle in his eye: "Can you play - Far Away?!"
As well as conducting choirs, Muriel also gives piano lessons.
I toy with the idea of asking if she would be willing to take me on. I've always wished I hadn't given up piano lessons at the age of eight, after taking umbrage when my piano teacher scolded me for not holding my wrists up. Or was it down? Should I have taken
piano lessons from Muriel when I was a Little Lass, I doubt she would have put up with my childish histrionics.
There are so many cakes to choose from on the counter, including one specially iced with a message
about Macmillans. There are also scones oozing cream and jam. I can't quite decide what to take home with me for Mr B's delectation. I do know, however, that he is expecting a cheese scone with butter and I am not at all sure whether it's a good idea to confront
him with Something Completely Different. In the end I play it safe and a large cheese scone is encased in a small cake box for Safe Carriage Homewards.
When I get home, Mr B is waiting for the Ryder Cup to
start. I prattle on about cakes and pianos, the eating if bacon baps and consequent life expectancy. I'm not sure he is paying too much attention, being as, even bearing a cheese scone, I am no competition for Team Europe. Though, of course, Team America may
I am not sure if Mr B has yet twigged that we are going to be away this weekend, staying with the Youngest of the Darling Daughters and watching Hazel Bagel and friends take to the stage for the Mayor
of Basingstoke's Variety Show on Saturday evening. On Sunday we have a date with the Middle of the Darling Daughters who will want to show her father round her new house. There may not be much time for watching golf until we get home on Sunday evening.
I am rehearsing my arguments for when realisation hits home as it surely will. Sunday evening, I will remind him, will after all be the most exciting session of the whole tournament. Even I will be happy to watch alongside
And just to sweeten the pill - how about a piece of cake? All in an excellent cause!