It all is down to the fact that I am hankering after a tiara.

Not too long ago, my dear friend on Facebook managed to convince me that I needed to fly the flag of the older women and enter myself for the Miss Tattoo competition at the Liverpool Tattoo Convention. I was going to the convention anyway as I was booked to have the most epic tattoo by Katriona MacIntosh, who has been nominated Best Newcomer.

So, I entered myself. The selection process was pretty simple. You post up your chosen photo with a little blurb about yourself. The public can then vote and the ten with the most votes would go through to the next round. So here was my entry. I was somewhat hit by a onslaught of prosaic diarrhoea and wrote this lengthy blurb in some vain attempt to make myself feel more credible as a candidate.

My interest in tattoos spans over a period of almost 20 years, sparked initially when I spent a few years of my childhood in Borneo before it was subjected to inevitable modernisation. As a child I found the permanent skin etchings on the Dayaks and Ibans intriguing. Actual skin doodles that No mother could scrub off with soap and water!

In my spare time, I participate in roller derby and love to nurse the bruises and grazes I get from it. I will be at the Brighton Tattoo Convention this year with my Whipped & Baked tattoo inspired cupcake stall. Come and say hello to me.

And I don’t know if it were my wit or my ankles, I made it through to the next round. The next round was pretty much the same. People had to vote again, and despite the slightly tricky process of having to register and wait for a confirmation email, which invariably ended up in everyone’s spam filter, I actually made it through to the final 10.

So here is the bit that I didn’t quite consider the implications of. The final is at Liverpool Tattoo Convention. By a panel of judges. On a stage. In front of EVERYONE. And I’ll have to introduce myself and all, and actually avoid snorting into the microphone or giggling like the village idiot.

Whilst the are people who are congratulating me for my go get ‘em approach to life, I am silently face palming myself. Since opening the bakery, my hair has been tucked up in a baking snood. It’s been weeks since I’ve worn high heels and what’s worse is, I literally have NO eyelashes left. I’ve somehow managed to dust my eyes with icing sugar every time I’m making icing and then caramelising my eyelashes when opening the door to a hot oven. Yum. Crunchy lashes.

So, I’m trying to remind myself that this isn’t a beauty contest. As I would never consider myself as befitting to enter a beauty contest. No one who is careless and carefree enough to accidentally shave their eyebrow when giving their hair an undercut is ever going to be beauty contest material.
And I intermittently remind myself, that as a heavily tattooed woman who has been collecting ink for over 20 years, I’ve pretty much shown that the very fact that I am tattooed has never hindered me from getting what I want, or doing what I want. The career progression from teacher to midwife to baker sets a great example of this. Even now, with the bakery, my ink is publicly visible and it doesn’t seem to bother anyone. Not outwardly at least. I’m being judged for the work I produce and by how I conduct myself with others – that should always be the case for everyone. And that is what this competition is all about, it’s about women who are inked who are being positive role models.

Rewinding to the fact that I hardly have any eyelashes anymore, to match my one non-existent eyebrow, you’ll be pleased to know that I have found ways of coping. It ain’t pretty and it’ll show me up as a somewhat vain individual but guys, eyelashes are important, they’re like windshields for your eyes. So I got myself eyelash extension.

Katrina, my beautician at Glorious Spa is now my new bestie. What a conjurer of miracle she is. Never mind that even she looked surprised when she told me that the fake lashes actually looked good on me. She can do no wrong in my (fluttery lashed) eyes.

I’m not sure if I’ll manage another post before I leave for Liverpool late on Friday. I’m making contingency plans. I’m the oldest by about 10 years at least and with more children than all of them put together, I suspect. There’s no way I’m going to win. So tomorrow, I am going to the toy shop and I’m buying myself a Barbie tiara.

Just watch me.

I went to my first auction. Apparently I went to a really good one. I was dispatched by Slaveboy with a list of furniture we were interested in along with a maximum bid price for each item. I arrived early, stood at the back and was pretty much frozen solid in time, for for that if I scratched my nose, or twiddled my thumbs, such act might be mistaken for a bid. Silly I know, and irrational considering there were people fiddling about, eating their sandwiches and reading the newspaper.

But stood I did. For a little less than three hours. I didn’t want to miss my lots, you see.

And I think I witnessed a momentous event. I saw this come up for bidding. I poo-pooed it as some small ugly brown vase with fancy handles. Akin to a sixth former’s attempt at pottery. I wouldn’t have given it house and the owner certainly didn’t think much of it either as the reserve price was placed at £100.

It sold for £66,000.

Sixty six thousand pounds.

At the time it went to press, the owner was still away and unreasonable, and he was going to come home to the news that his vase had sold for 66K.

I texted Slaveboy about the vase that sold for £66,000. He promptly texted back reminding me that I need not spend quite as much.

As if.

It’s been just over two weeks since the bakery first opened its door and we’ve been running to stand still. Despite all our convictions that things would start flow and build up to a steady momentum, we have found ourselves rushed off our feet and really testing the limits of our raw drive to want to make this work.

I’m not going to go into to much details tonight and I promise a more lengthy post during the weekend (hopefully) where I might talk about just how most of my baking time has been monopolised by making my cheesecake brownies which seem to be flying out of the bakery when just barely cool enough to cut.

There are a few things I’ve learnt.

Dishes. Bins. Floors. These things don’t get cleaned by themselves. You would have thought by now I’d got to grips with this notion.

I need an A board. I know this. You know this. My customers ALL know this and by golly, half of them have made sure that they know that I know this.

Over-frothed milk really does smell like dried egg whites. Not nice.

Open plan kitchens are great until you mistake the bicarbonate of soda for baking powder. Then your kitchen looks like a failed science lab lesson run by the substitute P.E. teacher. EVERYONE can see the mistakes you make.

On that note, I’ll share the second attempt of the failed baking endeavour above. It was all ok in the end.

Word of mouth is spreading about Whipped & Baked bakery and I have so much to share with you. I have ideas, musings and some if I could redo some bits moments to share with you but that will be coming at a later date.

Until then, do keep in touch via my Facebook page.

Sleep well.

And I’m still alive.

The eve of the opening, we took delivery of a radiogram, a bass cabinet, several valves and other things. These items were in the front of the bakery some 10 hours before we were due to open.

But we overcame in. We were busy. Lots of lovely friends and family cake to visit and I’m sure I has this insipid grin on my face for most part of the day.

Will write in more details but here are some pictures.

The bakery is almost done. I’m not sure what lessons I have learnt from this experience but one thing I am sure, more money would have soothed the process beautifully. However, I could be philosophical and think that perhaps I would appreciate it more because we did most of the work ourselves and took the time to get the finer details to how we want them to be but flipping heck, it’s been really hard work and there is still more to come before we can open the doors officially.

I’m currently sitting in a pub, enjoying a glass of Coke and a packet of over salted crisps. I have my painting jeans on and I still have gloss paint in my hair. I’ve managed to get the personal wifi password from the bartender and I’m surrounded by younglings discussing £100 tracksuits. Slaveboy is sound engineering for the night’s Open Mic Night.

All this to distract myself from trying to figure out how to get the 7th Wonder (aged almost 3) to take her Ramones tee shirt off so I can wash it. It’s been many many many days.

Here goes some photos.

The children, plus Firstborn’s boyfriend carried the chest of drawers from our house, which is about 100 paces from the bakery. I wanted to do away from the pre-fabricated shop counter look and Slaveboy did well in acquiring furniture which he then upcycled into counters.

Here’s the Small Shouty One showing off the custom made knickers cushions that my friend, Lindy of Busy Fingers made. I think they look fab.

Excuse the yellow sponge on the floor. Firstborn was cleaning the floor with it and at the same time doing her ballet exercises. I’d only noticed it when I was editing the image.

We also started giving the big window a clean. I’m pleased to share that my legendary wax on wax off window cleaning moves were much appreciated by the passers-by.

I found a great use for all the business cards I collected from tattoo artists over the years. I’ve always wanted the bakery to draw its inspiration from the tattoo world but I was keen to showcase how much tattoo art has developed and evolved into a viable artform in its own right. To do away from the pre-conceived idea that tattoo art is substandard, crude and lacking depth.

I’ve finally arrived to a decision as to when I plan to open. I’ll share it with you all soon. Once the gloss paint dries. Until then, have a good night. I’m back to eavesdropping on a conversation between a group of early 20s who are declaring vehemently that Imagine was originally an Elton John’s song.

I despair.

Most of the work at the bakery is almost done. I only have some freshly grouted tiles to clean in the kitchen and after that, it will be the mammoth undertaking of cleaning EVERYTHING. I’ve done this several times, and so have others. It lasts until one of us decides that we need to haul out something from the garage or from the cellar. Then the cleaning has to start all over again.

I won’t lie and say it’s been thoroughly enjoyable. It’s been bloody hard work and the weird thing is, I’m more weary than I am tired. The project, being so tightly budgeted, leaves very little room for error and at times, the first decision can’t be anything but the only decision, like it or not. So, we are having to really exercise our creative thinking and visualising and take huge leaps of faith with a lot of the decisions we have made.

But. And this the saving grace Mother of a big but, we have been extremely lucky. The Grade 2 listed building that is the bakery has not thrown us any troubles. Everything we have tried to do the building has appeared to welcome it. I know I know. It sounds hippie drippy.

We have one more day of Percy The Pirate tidying up the last bits of work needed doing and the building will be wholly ours to sort out. Much as I love Percy, it’s a bit like having a live-in maid when I was living with my Mother in Malaysia – you could never quite feel at home.

During the time spent sanding down doors and glossing skirting boards, I’ve been mentally listing what I would do differently if I had to do it all over again. Besides having triple the amount of budget of course. One of these days, when the dust settles (quite literally), I think I might write a post on that.

Until then, I’m pleased to announce that the vonSponge family is still going strong despite living on a diet of fluffy pancakes and maple syrup. We have an extremely tired Potato Bottom who’s still transitioning into life at the Performing Arts Schools. Mondays are a real killer for her – she’s there for 11 hours, the majority of those hours actually dancing. Lalla is caught up with regional level diving competition training and her Level 3 interview tomorrow for her Further Education course. Izzy The Rockstar is snowed under with essay writing, interview preparation for his Higher National Diploma course, his upcoming gig (plus his debut rehearsal with Slaveboy’s band) and slight panic about filling in University funding forms. Firstborn is reconsidering her decision about university and doggedly working at her photography. All this in the last one week while Zak Cool (aged 10) is now more often than not the oldest sibling around during the day time, the 7th Wonder leaving a trail of toy destruction around the house and her very own personal assault course designed to surprise us whenever we go down the stairs.

And The Small Shouty One is in love.

And his name is Adam.

And apparently he’s coming over Saturday for drinks and cake.

I don’t think his mother is aware of this but I doubt I’ll be finding an unchaperoned 6 year old at my doorstep very soon.

Here are some photos. In no discerning order.

Firstborn, a.k.a. Barnerbread recognised a great photo opportunity and managed to get 7th Wonder to agree to a photo shoot – it normally doesn’t take much persuading really. She decided on the retro Care Bear herself and after several attempts to get her to smile, Firstborn just told her to be natural.

I think it’s an awesome photo, and I just wanted to share this with you. I’ve got stories to tell about the bakery and how close we are to opening, about Potato Bottom deciding to join a dance school and also about last night when some random woman in a pub asked me if I would take her to the toilets and show her ALL of my tattoos but for now, I think this photo deserves the spotlight.

She’s posted a couple of photos and they seem to have brought upon a certain level of nostalgia in various people because of the retro CareBear.

At the moment, I’m pretty chuffed with my fwend, Spiker. She’s only gone and got herself a job. OK, so granted she got the job around early December last year and it’s only taken her employers til around last week to finally give her the all clear to actually turn up for work but who cares, I now finally have a friend whose skills are being paid for in real money, rather than in cakes and cups of coffee.
Let me tell you a bit about Spiker. She’s my age-ish. Around 6 foot 9 with her CFM boots on. If you don’t know what CFM means, then I say hello and welcome to you because you must be a new reader. I like to imagine her spending her time dressed in jodhpurs and silky satin fitted blouses with her hair in a chignon and her stern glasses on, but I suspect many, many men spend their time imagining the same.
Spiker also has a collection of crazy pets which don’t appear to have been briefed appropriately on just how pets should function. She also holds a permanent car parking space in my drive and tolerates me when I insist of experimenting with colourful cocktails and does very well at not laughing at me when I fall over.
I said to Spiker a while back that she must write a post for my blog and the woman has done it.

There’s been a rumour going round that my job or rather my *job* is in a similar category to that of imaginary friends – that is, I’ve made it up and it doesn’t actually exist. And because the start date to my *job* has been put back, postponed and rearranged many times (which is what lead to the rumours starting in the first place), Sponge boldly promised me I could have a guest post on Sniff and Snort when it materialized – as a sort of celebration. As rash promises go, I think it was quite a good deal. I, in turn have promised to buy her some chips and gravy and possibly a drink involving something blue when I get my first paycheque.
I have now attended my *job* for a total of 6 whole days but a bit like calculating dog years, when you work in the NHS, 6 days seems a lot longer. It occurred to me that since both Sponge and I are trying to be proper grown ups with jobs, there ought to be a lot of similarities in what we are doing.

Similarities:
We’re both working really hard and making numerous decisions all day.
Both finishing each day exhausted.
We both work with great people who appreciate cake.

Differences:
Sponge can actually see the progress she has made.
Sponge can use all of her time effectively.
Sponge does not have to play musical cars.

Let me explain musical cars to you: I work in a team which sees people both in the hospital and in their own homes. Our office is in the hospital but driving is essential to our work. There is a 10 year waiting list for a parking permit and all the roads surrounding the hospital have different residential parking restrictions. So I can park on one street till 10am, then I have to move for an hour. If I manage to park at the other end of the road I can park there for 2 hours but cannot return for 2 hours. If I fail to get a space there, I have little option but to park several miles away or try and get a space in the visitor’s car park which is pretty expensive. The afternoon is the same and so as we sit in the office our work is punctuated continuously with people suddenly realising the time and racing off to move their cars. Most of the staff have received fines at various times and this occurs when you are in the middle of an important phone call and you cannot drop everything to race off and move your car.

Something I will never cease to find hilarious is the look on the faces of people who have never worked for the NHS when they hear that this is how we work. Of course luckily for me, I know this great person who makes these treacle brownies which can make it all better (whilst knocking you out for much of the day).

Disclaimer: Spiker has not received monetary rewards for this post. In fact, she’s buying me chips & gravy when her first paycheque arrives.

Quick one, SniffSnorters. I’m sneaking in a post. The household is livelier than usual this morning as Potato Bottom is having two trial days doing full time at a Performing Arts school. We spent last night roasting whole chickens when we discovered we had nothing put in her packed lunch.

Today, will be a busy day. Percy The Pirate will be buffing the tiles and installing the surface for the coffee machine and sinks. He’ll be sorting out the plumbing and measuring up for the serving counters. The coffee machine is arriving and I’m meeting with the tea supplier. Even the elusive oven delivery might make an appearance by the end of tomorrow.

I had an almost glorious day yesterday. I managed to sneak out into town, if only to go to the bank to open a business bank account (a bit of bolting the door after the horse has flee or however the saying goes, I’m not English so English sayings come hard to me. I’ve also been sorting out an Orange PocketLandline account, a service which provides your business with a landline number with comparative call cost without you having to have a physical phone line connection.

As far as tiredness levels go, I’d say it’s about 11 on a scale of 10. I’ve stopped having coherent conversations with Slaveboy around five days ago and this is a perfect reason why complex plans like opening a bakery should not be drawn out on the back of an envelope because two months later, when tiredness hits you, the chances of you deciphering your etchings will be near on impossible.

Here are a couple of photos. One of Percy just as he finished the tiling (he hated it!) and another of an old 1933 Ordnance map of Chichester we found while clearing the bakery. I think we will be fra
Onwards and upwards, people. See you tomorrow