Sorry Brenda

Miss9 is about to becomes Miss10 today.  But she’s still my baby.  And the first real Australian in our family – born on Sydney soil.  This has very little to do with Brenda at this stage.

 A birthday on our house is always a bit of an Indian wedding and everyone has their “thing”.  Miss9 likes a certain cake from a deli in Rose Bay.  Its 5cm of icing all round and is, with respect, completely awesome, as birthday cakes go. 

More icing than cake because that’s how we roll for a birthday in our house!

The problem is always

a) to get the deli to answer the phone to take your order

b) to get them to return your call when they don’t answer the phone and ask you to leave a message to take your order

c) for them, once you have actually made contact, to indeed put your order in and space bank the cake for you to collect in two days time.

These cakes are baked in the St Ives Shire and ferried over the bridge with much ceremony and are sometimes hard as hens teeth to come by.

I persevered through a, b and c and eventually spoke to a lovely young man who took the order, complete with instructions not to defrost the cake which would be used the day after not the day of collection.  All good.  And now let me introduce you to Brenda.

On arrival yesterday afternoon, there was only a cake for Brenda.  I told them that if they wanted me to be Brenda, then Brenda I could be.  There was much back and forth.  I was considering crash tackling the lady standing between me and Brenda’s cake but she’s the kind you don’t want dropping out of the sky on top of you.

The very cute barista took charge and might or might not have uttered the words Fuck Brenda – she’s not here – give the lady the cake she ordered.  I don’t know whether he actually knew Brenda but I don’t think she had blond hair blow-waved to perfection that morning. God bless you son – may all your mermaid dreams come true.

An Oscar winning performance. Firstly I’d like to thank Brenda………..

So fortunately I didn’t have to call for back-up sitting impatiently in the bus zone in Precious and I dashed out of there cake clutched firmly in my hot little hands before Brenda could show up.

Re-telling the story to a friend that afternoon she said I shouldn’t feel bad because chances are when Brenda shows up, they’ll give her Sarah’s cake and so on and so on. 

Problem is, Brenda’s was the last cake.  Brenda, whoever she is, is completely fucked.  

So, sorry Brenda.  May the supermarket over the road be with you.


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