Black and grey mandala sleeve

The ovens have been on since three and the window over the proving racks has gone from black to the colour of weak tea. Nobody else is in yet. Ruth is cutting out the brioche for the Okafor christening and swearing at the scales under her breath, which is how I know the day has properly started.

I'm on the wedding cake for Mrs Pryce's daughter. Three tiers, and the top one needs the lace panel Dad used to pipe onto the Christmas stollen. You can't rush dotwork. Every dot is a decision, so I sit with the cocktail stick and the royal icing and prick out the rings from the centre outwards, the way he taught me, petal inside petal, until the whole thing looks like it grew rather than got made.

The big flower at the base went wrong. I piped the outer petals too wide and they slumped over the edge of the board before the icing set. I stood there for a full minute with the bag in my hand, thinking about the drive to Bristol with a spoiled cake in the boot. Then I scraped the lot off with the palette knife and started again, smaller and tighter, one ring at a time.

By half six the light has come up pale gold across the flour bins. The lower petal finally sits where it should, its edges lacy and even, and I dust the tier through a sieve so it looks like frost on a leaf. Ruth comes past with a tray, looks at it, and says nothing, which from her is the highest praise going.