"Feed your inner child" said Andrew, "it's the key to getting in touch with your creative side." I am doing a course, The Artist's Way with Andrew Carroll and our assignment each week is to do '"something silly but fun that appeals to your inner child." I immediately thought of how I've always wanted to have an entire chocolate cake to myself and smash my face in it.
"Synchronicity and serendipity are at work here," Andrew told us, "look out for them and see what they bring you."
'How to get the chocolate cake?' I asked myself, 'do I make a cake or just buy it?' I loved the idea of plunging my face into a cake in front of my children and making growling noises like the Cookie Monster from Sesame Street but Andrew said we had to do our assignments alone in order to fully immerse ourselves into the experience.
I decided that I ought to do this assignment at home because devouring a whole cake in public using no hands might have me arrested not to mention the mess I might make. Yet how was I to get a cake into the house past three permanently 'starving' boys and a sweet toothed husband undetected? As for being alone in my own home......, that never happens. I'd have to do it after they've all gone to bed.
The next day was Friday. Three temporary staff from work were finishing up that day and my boss, Mary bought a Battenberg cake during her lunch break to mark their leaving. My eyes lit up when I saw the Battenberg. As a child I always thought they were the ultimate luxury: a big chunk of cake smothered entirely in thick chocolate. Mary was about to put the cake in the fridge but I urged her not to as chocolate tastes best when served at room temperature. She agreed and put the cake on the filing shelf above the fridge instead.
At 4.30pm, we downed tools. Mary filled the kettle, put out extra mugs and sliced the Battenberg into 8 pieces. Everybody helped themselves to a cup of tea but nobody touched the cake. Not even me: I just wasn't ready for it. Mary was upset: not only did nobody want her cake but what upset her even more was that it might go to waste. I offered to bring a few slices home for the boys. Mary looked at me eagerly and said, "Would you take the whole thing?" A light bulb went off in my head. This is what Andrew meant by serendipity: I needed a chocolate cake and now the universe had given it to me.
Mary carefully wrapped the Battenberg in sheets of photocopying paper and sellotape. Because of it's awkward triangular shape, it's a hard cake to wrap; she went to a lot of trouble to make sure none of it leaked out. I didn't have the heart to tell her what I intended to do with it.
I laid the cake gingerly at the bottom of my lunch bag, covered it over with newspaper and headed for home. The front door was locked. That's odd. I had to use my key to get in and as I stepped into the hallway I heard no sounds from the TV. I peered into the living room. The TV wasn't on and there were no starving boys on the couch demanding, "Where's my dinner?" There was no-one in the kitchen. I called up the stairs but got no reply. I was home alone. Synchronicity. I hurried into the kitchen: it was now or never.
I placed the Battenberg on the kitchen table and carefully cut through the paper and sellotape with a scissors. I tied my hair back. I placed a tea towel around my neck, another on my lap and then, taking a deep breath I plunged my face into the cake. It tasted horrible. Like a dog nosing around in his food bowl, I persisted looking for the best bits. But there were none. The cake part tasted like sawdust and the chocolate crust was bland and oily. Disgusted and disappointed, my inner child spat it all out again. No wonder nobody at work touched it. I roughly wrapped the cake back up and plunged it into the bin.
My next 'inner child' assignment is to re-live one of my favourite childhood memories: eating cold, hard-boiled eggs - with a little bit of salt - sitting on a tartan blanket on Garretstown beach shivering in the wind. I can't imagine what serendipity and synchronicity will bring me this time.
"Synchronicity and serendipity are at work here," Andrew told us, "look out for them and see what they bring you."
'How to get the chocolate cake?' I asked myself, 'do I make a cake or just buy it?' I loved the idea of plunging my face into a cake in front of my children and making growling noises like the Cookie Monster from Sesame Street but Andrew said we had to do our assignments alone in order to fully immerse ourselves into the experience.
I decided that I ought to do this assignment at home because devouring a whole cake in public using no hands might have me arrested not to mention the mess I might make. Yet how was I to get a cake into the house past three permanently 'starving' boys and a sweet toothed husband undetected? As for being alone in my own home......, that never happens. I'd have to do it after they've all gone to bed.
The next day was Friday. Three temporary staff from work were finishing up that day and my boss, Mary bought a Battenberg cake during her lunch break to mark their leaving. My eyes lit up when I saw the Battenberg. As a child I always thought they were the ultimate luxury: a big chunk of cake smothered entirely in thick chocolate. Mary was about to put the cake in the fridge but I urged her not to as chocolate tastes best when served at room temperature. She agreed and put the cake on the filing shelf above the fridge instead.
At 4.30pm, we downed tools. Mary filled the kettle, put out extra mugs and sliced the Battenberg into 8 pieces. Everybody helped themselves to a cup of tea but nobody touched the cake. Not even me: I just wasn't ready for it. Mary was upset: not only did nobody want her cake but what upset her even more was that it might go to waste. I offered to bring a few slices home for the boys. Mary looked at me eagerly and said, "Would you take the whole thing?" A light bulb went off in my head. This is what Andrew meant by serendipity: I needed a chocolate cake and now the universe had given it to me.
Mary carefully wrapped the Battenberg in sheets of photocopying paper and sellotape. Because of it's awkward triangular shape, it's a hard cake to wrap; she went to a lot of trouble to make sure none of it leaked out. I didn't have the heart to tell her what I intended to do with it.
I laid the cake gingerly at the bottom of my lunch bag, covered it over with newspaper and headed for home. The front door was locked. That's odd. I had to use my key to get in and as I stepped into the hallway I heard no sounds from the TV. I peered into the living room. The TV wasn't on and there were no starving boys on the couch demanding, "Where's my dinner?" There was no-one in the kitchen. I called up the stairs but got no reply. I was home alone. Synchronicity. I hurried into the kitchen: it was now or never.
I placed the Battenberg on the kitchen table and carefully cut through the paper and sellotape with a scissors. I tied my hair back. I placed a tea towel around my neck, another on my lap and then, taking a deep breath I plunged my face into the cake. It tasted horrible. Like a dog nosing around in his food bowl, I persisted looking for the best bits. But there were none. The cake part tasted like sawdust and the chocolate crust was bland and oily. Disgusted and disappointed, my inner child spat it all out again. No wonder nobody at work touched it. I roughly wrapped the cake back up and plunged it into the bin.
My next 'inner child' assignment is to re-live one of my favourite childhood memories: eating cold, hard-boiled eggs - with a little bit of salt - sitting on a tartan blanket on Garretstown beach shivering in the wind. I can't imagine what serendipity and synchronicity will bring me this time.
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