I came back to Bristol this week from a short break in London after managing to bag a £1 room at the rather lovely Hoxton hotel in their pound sale (did I mention that I hold the title of Queen of Bargains?).
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.