Cake

Today, The Boy is going on a school trip to The Bethnal Green Museum of Childhood.  Whilst it is not his first school trip, it is the first one he has made without me as his personal co-hort.  I am horribly nervous for him.

Despite my insistence that I wanted to accompany the group, I have been politely turned down. There are, I am told, enough grown ups going that my presence is not required.  This includes the awful Miss Poo, whom The Boy now associates with all things related to punishment at school, so you can imagine the affect that's going to have on his behaviour.

Instead, I will spend my time today pacing nervously, and hoping that The Boy can cope. 

In preparation for this school trip, we visited the museum during half term.  Although he initially enjoyed it, his interest waned.  There is a higher proportion of "things behind glass" than one would hope for at a museum that must see its audience as children, the areas for designated play aren't very large, and the acoustics are awful. 

He found it so loud that, on the arrival of Auntie Hazel an hour or so after we had been inside, he looked at her, and seeing how distressed she was by the obvious volume and crowding said "it's really loud in there.  Shall we go and get some cake instead?"

Today then, whilst I pace and worry; whilst I castigate myself for not just taking the trip to the museum under my own steam to make sure he is ok (for fear that I am not letting him go into the world his own way);  I will hope that there will be someone sensible enough to spot and intervene before he gets agitated, help him when it gets too noisy; who will look him, see his discomfort and offer to bring him for cake instead.

Jaffa Cakes

I don't like Jaffa Cakes.

It's not the fact that they are inexplicably and half heartedly coated in the foulest chocolate this side of the USA. It's not the fact that they are an odd size, impossible to dunk in tea for risk that their puny bodies may collapse under the pressure of the hot milky caffeine sodden goodness inside my cup. It's not even that they have that disgusting gelatinous dollop of orange flavoured jelly ungraciously shoved into its inner sanctum (although this does not help).

It boils down to this, and this alone. Is it a cake or a fucking biscuit?

If you are really a cake, sit with the cakes. If you're a chocolate coated biscuit, pay tax.

For fuck's sake Jaffa cakes - shit or get off the pot. Pick a fucking side, you schizophrenic chocolate coated orange centred evil bastards.