I remember the day I fell in love with Bristol.
I was 17 and my dad and I had flown down for the day to scope out the city and the University. We found ourselves wandering aimlessly around this brand new place; swallowed up by beautiful architecture, meandering around bustling streets filled with friendly-faced people, gazing at up at the blue sky punctuated by momuments and towers, and admiring the green, open spaces lined with students and families dining al-fresco and lapping up the sunshine.
It truly was love at first sight.
I love cake. I love baking it, eating it, sharing it with friends and loved-ones, trying to be better at making it, and trying to making people smile with it.
But, like a tumultuous literary love story, my affair with cake is dangerous. I pore, obsessively, over cookbooks, agonising at what to bake – which springy sponge will bring me closer to baking perfection. Essentially, I try to find the Platonic form of the cupcake. I bake. And then – inevitably – I eat.
This time a week ago I was being perpetually sucked off at the ankles by a pounding mudfest the size of Bath.
I spent today hunched over my desk dreading an impending Weight Watchers weigh-in and doing my best impression of a civilised office worker.
For those of you who don’t know by now, I’m experiencing The Glasto Comedown. Fortunately, I know I’m not the only one; my Facebook feed is a Glasto graveyard of messy photos, sad smileys and sprawling statuses filled with in-jokes – mostly written by the posse of wonderful mackems with whom I camped, drank, raved, walked, moaned, and laughed until my spleen came out through my navel.
I know I’m not alone when I say that our week was nothing short of spectacular.