Chris Sykes's Blog: some bits and bobs - Posts Tagged "ferocious"

How to Bake a Cake

Mrs Lambsbottom was approximately 1.236 and a quarter miles away from being an ordinary 87 year old lady. Although she burped - from her bottom as well as her mouth - like everyone else, she was a trifle crazy. In fact, she was a cold, curdled, custard cream crazy but that is a trifle harder to say.

Her face closely resembled that of a grandma. Granted, she occasionally wore an expression similar to that of a person who has been slapped in the face with a freshly caught trout but she smiled an awful lot. Although, I am afraid to say, she does not have much time for smiling in this story.

Mrs Lambsbottom wore her hair, which curled and danced in the slightest of breezes, high on her head. She paid someone £68 every two weeks to dress her hair with overly large rollers and in a peculiar blue rinse. If you wanted to be mean (which I would strongly advise against) you might say that she paid 10 pence for every single strand of hair. What she had may have been waning but to her it looked terribly terrific and that was what mattered.

She woke up at the same insane time every single day, even on a weekend. Five o’clock is not a time one needs to be awake for, unless of course, you happen to be baking cakes.

Cakes are terrifically temperamental things and will only allow themselves to be baked at that time in the morning because the air is wonderfully still and quiet. Ask any baker, they always start their day at the same ridiculous time too and spend the early hours coaxing the cakes to rise with the sun.

Although it is not actually a proven fact, cakes do not like much in this world; they are somewhat loathing in character. They appear at first sweet and innocent but if you took the time to really get to know one, you would know what I mean. They detest baths and showers, they hate the rain and puddles, and when it comes to rivers and lakes, well, it is best not to mention them.

If by chance you were to take a cake into the bath (some people have been known to) the cake would panic and jump straight out of your hands in a frantic bid for dry freedom. And, because cakes are not particularly great at jumping, they would - more often than not - drop directly into the water that they had desperately tried to avoid and become spoilt.

The exception to the rule, for there always is an exception to any rule, is a sponge cake. All sponge cakes love baths and showers, they love the rain and puddles, and when it comes to rivers and lakes, well, they love them too.

It has been widely reported, amongst certain people, that sponge cakes will follow a smelly person for hours in the hope that they will be bathing in the not too distant future. Those said sponge cakes will dive directly into the water with you, soaking it all up. (I say ‘you’ here and I do not mean you personally but ‘you’ as in bathers as a whole. You - the reader - are not necessarily a smelly person. I cannot smell you through this book so I do not know. It is not a magical book but from the look of you, that is probably a good thing.)

It is best not to take any cake into the bath. It is much preferred that cakes are to be eaten with vigour and gusto, in mainly dry surroundings. The odd dollop of cream never hurt anyone intentionally and is quite tasty with cakes.

Mrs Lambsbottom had never baked a cake in her life. She thought that she lived alone and did not care much for supposedly sweet and innocent confectioneries.

She began her day, that fateful day which changed her life, as she began any other. After waking up in her strangely small bed, in her awfully tall and wickedly wide house, she slid her long and pointy feet into her long and pointy slippers. Whilst walking down her many, many stairs she stretched and yawned on the 72nd, as she always did, and entered her fearsomely large kitchen. Readying her terribly large pan on her preposterously large cooker, she opened her cupboard to take a handful of oats, with which she would make porridge.

Tremendously tasty cakes can only be baked after eating a substantial breakfast. Although cakes do not particularly like porridge they prefer it to eggs, which is unfortunate for cakes because you cannot bake a cake without breaking a few free-range eggs. Tremendously tasty cakes need the free-range eggs smashed right into the mixture, shells and all. You cannot give a cake everything that it wants otherwise it will become sluggish and lazy.

Instead of taking a handful of oats, Mrs Lambsbottom had hold of something completely different. It was shortly after five o’clock in the morning and Mrs Lambsbottom had not noticed that she was not holding a handful of oats at all. Her long and chubby fingers had hold of...

The Most Ferocious of Creatures

Morning Zombiefication

... a mouse.

Adults of a certain age can suffer from Morning Zombiefication, which means that their brains take a lot longer to wake up than their bodies do. When you see an adult, of a certain age, awake in the morning they may not be fully coherent and may be moving in a fashion akin to a zombie. Signs to watch out for include: yawning, eyes half closed, the smell of coffee, messy hair, not being dressed in a fashionable manner, gazing woefully into space, smelly breath, smelly feet, smelly arms, smelly hands, smelly legs, smelly hair. Adults generally smell a trifle iffy when they suffer from Morning Zombiefication. A sponge cake closely stalking them is also a good sign to watch out for.

The most embarrassing symptom of all (and it even gets its own paragraph) is dribbling. A line of saliva forms at the corner of an adults mouth and gradually drip, drip, drips down until it is about to fall from their chin, when an arm automatically shoots up and wipes the evidence away. One must be extra vigilant in the morning to spot an adult dribbling. All sufferers do it and all sufferers deny being sufferers at all.

Mrs Lambsbottom was no different, which meant that whilst dribbling and gazing woefully into space, she threw a mouse into her terribly large pan on her preposterously large cooker, instead of a handful of oats.

The poor mouse stood aghast. He wanted his breakfast too and most definitely did not want to be in a terribly large pan. He did not know that he was also on a preposterously large cooker but if he had known, he most definitely did not want to be on one.

Before he could utter a word of annoyance he was doused with a splash of milk. To make porridge, milk is essential, mice are optional. In fact, mice do not go well with milk at all and so mice are no good with porridge. They become strangely erratic and somewhat angry if milk is poured on them and this mouse was no different.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” shouted the mouse, rather angrily. “You can’t throw a mouse into a pan and pour milk on him. It’s not on, it’s just not on.”

Mrs Lambsbottom could not hear the mouse because she was deaf. Even if she was not deaf she would not have been able to understand him because they did not speak the same language. She may have been able to understand the general gist of some of what he was saying because an angry mouse sounds a great deal like an angry Mrs Lambsbottom. But, she was deaf and so, could not.

What she would have heard, had she not been deaf of course, would have been a series of irritated little squeaks followed by an irate loud bang. The mouse had launched himself against the side of the terribly large pan; which tippled and toppled and eventually fell from the preposterously large cooker, after spinning around twice for good measure. The irate loud bang was thus created when the mouse, in the pan, met with the shockingly hard floor.

The Most Ferocious of Creatures

So enraged at being soaked in milk, the mouse ran right up to Mrs Lambsbottom and yanked with all his might at the hem of her nightie.

“Excuse me, how long have we lived together and how nicely have I treated you over the years? I never once disturbed your breakfast.” The mouse said, not fully comprehending Mrs Lambsbottom’s aural difficulties.

“A MOUSE!” Mrs Lambsbottom thought she shrieked, when she eventually noticed the furry little fiend yanking on her nightie. Launching herself onto the kitchen table she was extremely relieved to find that it was a little on the small side and not, as per her normal taste, ridiculously large.

Milk soaked mice are the most ferocious of creatures and this one was no different. His beady eyes shone red, which was an allergic reaction to being soaked with milk. The same milk frothed and foamed at his mouth. When he squeaked, and he squeaked incessantly, spittle, mixed with the frothing milk flew from his little mouse mouth in a white spray, misting in front of his face.

“On the table?” He squeaked. “You think you can escape me by jumping onto a table?” He asked, not really expecting an answer.

Although he did not have any climbing rope with him and he’d left his helmet in his bedroom, he began to ascend one of the legs of the table. The table may have been a little on the small side but it was monstrously large and excitingly dangerous for a little mouse. So furious was he at being drenched in milk he paid no heed to his own safety.

“Milk of all liquids,” he continued to moan to himself as he scurried along, “couldn’t it have been orange juice?” Mice are not necessarily known for liking orange juice but this one did.

Mrs Lambsbottom was quick on her long and pointy feet when her eyes captured the image of the red-eyed, crazed and foaming at the mouth mouse charging ferociously up the table leg straight towards her. For an awfully tall and wickedly wide person she was ever so nimble. She leapt from the table and landed on the shockingly hard floor with all the grace a one legged fish might have, if such an animal ever existed. She may have been ever so nimble but she was blatantly far from graceful.

Before disappearing up the stairs to hopeful safety, she glanced around. The mouse stood on his hind legs on top of the kitchen table beating his chest like a gorilla. “Uuurrrggh,” she shivered, turned away and sprinted uncomfortably up the stairs.

At the top and out of breath, she slammed her bedroom door and tiptoed into the bathroom opposite. This was to trick the mouse into thinking that she was in her bedroom, when in fact she was cowering in the bathroom on the other side of the landing.

What she did not realise was that milk soaked mice can smell fear. Mrs Lambsbottom was truly terrified and rapidly radiated fear. If she had known that, she may have taken the time to shower, she was in the bathroom after all. Instead, she waited. The smell of fear continued to seep out of her and drift downstairs, towards the open nostrils of the enraged, milk soaked mouse.

The rest can be found here:
The Most Ferocious of Creatures

Available in print and as an ebook. I recommend the print version.