The Cake Monster lives in my house. He is four feet tall, covered in pink, fluffy hair, and carries an oversized sequinned handbag in the shape of a cupcake (to keep his supply of lemon and poppy seed muffins in).
As his name suggests, he is rather partial to the odd fondant fancy or Victoria sponge. His love of cakes also means that he is rather on the... ahem... cuddly side. In fact, it's been getting more and more difficult for his very close friend Mr Muffin Monster to cuddle him recently, especially since he discovered the delights of the organic dark chocolate brownie.
He lives in the kitchen, in a special monster hole behind the cooker where he gets maximum exposure to any cake fumes that might be disseminating from the oven. He's made his hidey hole quite cosy. He's put up pictures of his favourite cakes (cherry bakewell, cream horn and coffee and walnut) from Monster Cake Monthly. He's very houseproud and can often be found giving his collection of novelty ceramic gateaux a good going over with a feather duster.
Although he's quite a homely monster, he always ventures out of the hidey hole whenever he feels there is a cake situation in the household.
When I'm feeling down, he creeps up behind me and whispers in my ear. "You know what'd make you feel a bit better, don't you? A nice bit of cake. What about a bit of passion cake? Go on love, it's your favourite."
He's there on PMT days, encouraging me to satisfy my sugar craving with a slice of pecan pie, a flapjack or something equally guaranteed to give an instant high. "Come on chick, let your hormones loose on this apple strudel."
If friends are coming for a cuppa, out he'll come. "Ooo, you haven't seen them for ages. And you know how mad they are for a lovely lemon drizzle."
There is only one cake he does not like - the iced bun. At the mere mention of that-which-shall-not-be-named (as he refers to it), he explodes into a violent rage, which is very out of character for one so generally soppy "It's not a chuffin' cake," he screeches, "it's a ruddy bread roll! A ruddy bread roll with a bit of blinkin' icing on it. A tarted-up bap, that's all it is."
And we must never, ever mention the D.I.E.T. word in his company again. I won't go in to details about what happened last time, but let's just say that I've never seen anyone actually set fire to a picture of Carol Vordeman before.
See more, and probably much more sensible, Sunday Scribblings.