i think that some baking would be good for me

I know that folding flour in

And heating ovens to one-eighty

Will chase away the fears and worries

All caught up in knotted necks

And hunched up shoulders screaming out in pain.

If I could bake and fill my nose

With cinnamon and chocolate drops,

If I could cover fingers in

A sticky dough to lick away,

Then life would feel a little sweet

With spice to make it fun again.

I’d cook away those throbbing aches,

Forgetting what it was that caused

Those fears I felt in heavy spades.

the reasons one might love GBBO

Paul Hollywood’s eyes, so blue I feel like I could swim in them (that’s cheesy, I know, but we’re all thinking it)
Those flavours that I could never dream myself. The gingerbreads and elderflowers tease my tastebuds and haunt my nose with scents so rich
Watching things go wrong. I can’t deny that cakes collapsing in, are always fun to watch
The kooky contestants that wear the strangest clothes or have a dodgy past. The man who always wears a bow tie beside the woman who strips on Friday night. Priceless
Noel. So perfectly weird
The office sweepstakes that has to be played each year. Will I go out in the biscuit round? Or am I doomed to have to feed my colleagues some weird vegan creation, made with avocado and Earl Grey tea?
Those ovens with the doors that swoosh away. I want one. Please
All that bunting
The crying and hugging when someone has to leave. It warms my heart and makes me want to take part. Just so I can be a part of their lovely cakey family
How angry everyone gets on social media. Why did that contestant have to leave? Why was she crowned the winner? What on earth was that monstrosity that Noel was wearing? There’s just so much that one can get aggy about.

I hope you’re enjoying it responsibly…..

We used to laugh as we stood against the kitchen top

Chocolate covered spoon, touching button noses

As heady scents of richest bakes began to drift

Through the air that hung like blankets overhead.

But soon the smell began to turn

To something tart and difficult to love.

I cut through satin sheets of sweet

To find that you were never really there.

It hurt at first, like I had burned myself

On glowing metal straight from oven’s jaws.

The burn was ugly and a blemish there for life,

I hated looking at the postule pock marked skin,

Knowing it could never fade into my pale and freckled arm.

It hurt for years; four to be precise.

And then one day the cook book caught my eye

And soon I found the cookies being baked.

I wasn’t in that deepest love

But I had healed, forgiven in the ginger haze

The kitchen once again the place

I wished to spend my lonely days.