Become a burly, bearded Manhattan lumberjack with giant hands and thick thighs

Your mum doing an embarrassing dance at your wedding is kinda what mums are for.

I am cake addled this week, dissociating every six or so minutes to a land of whipped fat, delicate sponge, set custard and good old fashioned jam. I’m a classics man myself, I abhor daft, one-upmanship caking, all cardamom and popping candy and being in the shape of something else. A cake should look like a cake. Why do we have to have a Royal Academy sculpture? Why is my cake disguised as a moonlanding diorama? Let me cake like I’m and at the first ever VE day party.

Vanilla cheesecake is king, pillowy, inanimate goodness, a comforting familiar constant like Tom from MySpace. Carrot cake is good if you don’t add an annoying icing carrot on the top. Victoria sponge is a must after the week the Beckhams have had.

I like cakes to be recently-baked, in the same way I prefer recently-sandwiched sandwiches. There’s something a bit designed-on-an-iPad about processed-months-ago cake. Buying long-life supermarket cake is like buying half-baking-soda coke from a provincial town’s club doorman. That said, there’s really nothing more romantic than smuggling things into a prison inside a cake.

I have become slightly obsessed with house clothes. Outfits for indoor-only shenanigans—an m&s soup, another Cabot Cove murder, a couple of eye patches, some cat stroking. I haven’t fully pivoted to staying in, but elasticated trousers and a housecoat are a welcome respite from the taste of AmEx in your mouth after licking your credit card in a loo.

Speaking of eye patches. They’re cool. Look at Ken.

I don’t remember Ken’s long-term character arc, (maybe because I was looking at his unpatched eye?). Don is in a toxic cycle of having breakdowns which go onto inspire his greatest creative work. Pete’s hairline is its own saga, and his shrill wife deserves more credit. Peggy is women in the sixties, it’s the most obvious and satisfying watch. I still can’t tell you if January Jones is kinda wooden, or the greatest most-overlooked actress of a generation.

Ken just hangs around. Ken has no depth perception, but that’s hardly an arc. Ken’s there for the office lawnmower incident, but so is the hare krishna account manager who shaves his head. The problem with Ken is that he doesn’t have the same horny glow up as Stan. He doesn’t become a burly, bearded Manhattan lumberjack with giant hands and thick thighs. I will never, ever forget that.

I guess, if you really try, holidays can be cheap, but there’s so much saving-up to do. I know this long, cold cherry espresso tastes like sun lounger and costs less that any BA package deal. I’m drinking this until I can remortgage and get my top off with a San Pellegrino.

This is fucking cool, no notes. Well, a small note to say I need a clay vase with a Toyota stamp. Apparently, they were gifts from the company in Japan? Much better than a branded keyring.