Rose and chain ornament on the upper abdomen

I am writing this at the back bench with the ovens ticking and the window still black as a coal scuttle, so forgive the smudges. Mr Okonedo's cake went out at four with its ornament finished, and I have not stopped thinking about the last hour of piping. He wanted a rose at the crown, two leaves and a ribbon going out either side like the arms of a scale, then the lace coming down: scrolls, a single pale stone in the middle, and chains that drop in loops to the lowest tier. No colour, only the thin black line of royal icing, because his late wife would have hated fuss.

I piped the petals first, starting from the tight bud and letting each one open a little more than the last, the way my mother taught me on a Sunday with a cold cup of tea beside her. My hand wanted to press harder on the curves, but the icing has to be coaxed. Press and it sulks. Keep it moving and it holds its shape like a good promise. The chains took longest. Forty-one loops, and I counted every one, because if one sags the whole thing looks tired.

When it was done I stood back and the cake looked like something hung in a shop window rather than eaten, which I suppose was the point. Then the sun came up over the rooftops and lit the sugar, and every line caught the light at once. I cried a little, which is absurd at this hour, and Mr Okonedo's son said nothing at all. He only lifted the box and carried it out to the van as carefully as a sleeping child.

Write soon. Tell me the bread is rising.

Yours in flour, Pearl