'The year I turned eight, I made my own birthday cake. It was supposed to be a three-tier chocolate gateau with strawberries and cream, but my grandmother set the oven temperature too high and it all fell apart. The blurb in the recipe book described it as an 'elegant cake for very special occasions', with a difficulty rating of three cartoon chef hats. I tried to glue the broken pieces back together with icing, determined to replicate the elegance in the picture, but couldn't get the consistency right. Not enough water and then too much. I was still in the kitchen frantically pressing sliced strawberries into the dripping chocolate mess when my friends started arriving for the party. I could hear them with their parents in the living room being introduced to my newborn sister, my very special occasion having been hijacked five days earlier by Lydia's overdue arrival. Between the incessant crying and the nappy changes and the feeding at all hours, no-one had remembered to organise party games or bake a cake or put together lolly bags. I actually felt sorry for my friends, having to attend such a crap party. Instead of pass-the-parcel, we watched the lingering adults pass Lydia around. When that got boring, we pulled cherry tomatoes off a vine in the backyard and pelted them at each other.' (Publication abstract)
