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This is a question Kids

Either you love 'em or you hate 'em. Or in the case of Fred West - both. Tell us your ankle-biter stories.

(, Thu 17 Apr 2008, 15:10)
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Cake Tale.
I like kids. I seem to have a particular affinity for stompy, shouty little boys who enjoy being hung upside down, rolled about in filth, and all that sort of thing. And I plan on having several of my own, should my ovaries not prove bullet-proof (a possbility, considering my parents couldn't have children. Yark! Narf! But seriously...)

It seems that the key if you wish your children to avoid obnoxious brattery is to have more than one kid. By all accounts, I was an absolute horror until Mnemonic Minor showed up when I was five - a goggly-eyed ball of dough with bright ginger hair and one ear bigger than the other (he's now tall, blonde and a part-time model, the b@st@rd.) Before this (partly due to medical problems which meant I couldn't walk til I was three, and partly because my parents had lost a couple before I came along) I had far too much attention and fuss made of me. Being ignored - or at least no longer the centre of attention - was the best thing that ever happened to me.

To illustrate, I shall tell you the tale of the village fete - a story of Machiavellian plotting, rebellion, and cake.


I would have been about four when this happened. Mum, for reasons lost in the mists of time, had thought it was a good idea to take her organically-reared (read – sugar-starved) offspring for a stroll down to the village hall, where preparations were being made of the annual Flower and Produce show. (yep – we know how to throw a party in rural Dumfries.) She was probably just bored off her tits trapped in a house with an insomniac, rabidly-questioning child who’d just learned how to get about independently, adn was making full use of her newly-acquired skill. The Flower and Produce show was, as might be expected, your typical WI set-up – the Biggest Marrow competition (no silliness please), home-grown produce rosettes, hand-knitted sheep, flower arranging, a needlework prize, and – most importantly – the Bakery Contest.

As we went in, I was put under strict instructions “not to lay a finger on any of the cakes”, on pain of death, or at the least a hefty spanking. Mum went over to the other side of the hall to talk to some middle-aged ladies in beige two-pieces. I wandered about the displays for a while, sneezing at the flowers, tentatively stroking a knitted teddy bear. But slowly and inevitably, I was drawn towards the long trestle table where the cakes had been set out, ready to be judged later that day.

The cakes sat, plump and alluring, on a cloth of perfect white. They seemed to glow with an inner light of their own. To my childish eyes, there appeared to be hundreds, a feast, a fantasy banquet. We weren’t really allowed cake at home, but here, in case you haven’t already clicked, was cake aplenty, There were sponge cakes oozing jam, deep crumbly chocolate cakes, gooey caramel cakes, layer cakes topped with thick buttery icing and a swirl of raspberry sauce. There was a deep scarlet cherry cake topped with cream and generously decorated with deep red fruit. There were tiny fairy cakes iced in all the colours of the rainbow, topped with violet icing flowers.

Then I came to the end of the table, and there it stood – the piece de resitance. The Great Gateau. It was at least five layers high, and iced in palest pink, with brilliant gold sugar roses piped onto the sides. It was a thing of wonder and delight. I looked at those sweet, shining, roses, and I began to salivate. Just one, just a little one, from round the back…surely nobody would notice? But I couldn’t touch. I’d been told specifically to keep my hands firmly behind my back. There was nothing to be done. I would have to go cakeless. Unless…

All of a sudden, the wail of a demented beige-clad banshee split the silence of the hall. “WHOSE is this CHILD??”

Mum span around to see me, hands clasped firmly and obediently behind my back, blissfully face-first in the cake. I had simply leant forward and taken a massive bite out of the side. But I hadn’t laid a finger on it.
And yea, it was delicious.

And I STILL got a spanking. Bloody kids? Bloody parents, more like.

I like cake.
(, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 17:14, 9 replies)
I love cake.
You can have a click just for the 'narf!', nice story too though!
(, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 17:19, closed)
I too like cake
and on that alone, have a click!
(, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 17:20, closed)
I like cake.
Especially chocolate cake.
(, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 17:24, closed)
I'm off to but a fooking
massive chocolate gateaux now.

(, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 17:26, closed)
*best Marjorie Dawes voice*
Ooooh, man I lubbe de cake!
(, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 19:42, closed)
Any story involving cake
deserves a click.
(, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 22:25, closed)
"A story of Machiavellian plotting, rebellion, and cake"
Best line I have heard for a long time.
(, Tue 22 Apr 2008, 23:53, closed)
I laughed so much I nearly cried, FANTASTIC.
(, Wed 23 Apr 2008, 14:33, closed)
Feeling smug (and yet slightly ashamed)
That I know the show. My grandparents live in Dumfries and when we visit them in summer it always coincides with the Dumfries show. That's not the good bit though. The good bit is that my granny has won the bakery section something like 5 times - it's entirely possible it was her cake you ate...
(, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 0:01, closed)

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