I MADE the Christmas cake way back in October and, under the direction of Mr Jamie Oliver, regularly infuse said cake with whisky using a meat skewer or, in my case, a chopstick.

And, like all good cooks, once my cake was done I wrapped it tightly in grease proof paper, placed it in an airtight container and ceremonially placed it in a dark cupboard.

Now the time had come to ice the thing.

And letting the cake see the light of day was somewhat ceremonial in our kitchen. Even the cat was present.

"Feels a bit heavy sweetheart," mused my husband as he dropped the cake onto the worktop. My son, who was sitting on the very same top, made a grab for the fruit-laden piece of confectionary.

"Well he seems to think it looks tasty," I huffed.

"I'm sure it's lovely Karen," replied my hubby. "Good enough to eat," he added with a wink and in a manner that can only be described as sarcastic.

I slammed the kitchen door on the pair of them and set about icing my cake. The urge to add a couple of drops of arsenic to my husband's slice soon evaporated as a set to my mission.

The first bit was easy.

Apricot jam smothered over the top, then marzipan. God, this baking lark is, well, a piece of cake. Ha, ha, I laughed at my wit. I was really enjoying myself now and put my Phil Spector Christmas tape on.

A bit too loud perhaps. The cat nearly had kittens.

No, there was room for only one virgin birth this season.

Right, before I tackled the icing, a bit of Christmas spirit wouldn't go amiss I thought. Just a small one . . . shame to waste it all on the cake.

Half an hour later and my husband and son returned to the kitchen.

"Has it been snowing?" enquired my better half.

Okay, so I'd had words with the icing sugar but, there was my cake, all white and festive, wrapped in a big gold ribbon.

And the baker? Well, she was well and truly sloshed!