Since when did everyone who has managed to pop out a child get good at baking? And why don’t I have the bug or even the slightest desire to whip up a tart or turnover?
All my new circle are at it. My new circle of mums that is, who have all the same stresses as me, tearing their hair out to get the eldest offspring to school while the baby, who kept them awake all night, is covered in porridge and poo.
They are sleep deprived and time deprived, yet can still dedicate hours to pudding production.
After further probing I discover they find it therapeutic. The only thing that would qualify as therapy in my life is a hot stone massage.
A few friends have even launched cupcake businesses catering for showers and funerals, because be it a birth or a death, everyone loves a muffin.
It’s a cash for cakes racket while being revered as the effortless goddesses they are, with an activity that helps them wind down.
Now I’m not knocking this. I am most definitely in awe. I love buying and eating chocolate cake, a little too much, but Googling, Sky plus and gossip mags dominate my spare time because I’m trying to stop my brain turning to mush and stay connected to a world parenthood is conspiring to isolate me from.
Lets leave the hard work of serving pastry treats to the experts, but how did that become, well, everyone?
That’s another thing about exchanging your former life and fast paced career for rearing small people, and becoming officially in charge of all the soul destroying fiddly jobs in the house that are impossible to finish.
You put on pounds in the wrong places because while you used to hook up with girlfriends for cocktails and nibble canapes, you now socialise with, and chase, humans that can’t yet talk or walk steadily, in your kitchen.
And this makes you graze all things sugar. Your days are fuelled by the stuff because you are tired, oh so tired.
You have to do a good job by the small people, but you don’t get paid. You are so frazzled and surviving on coffee, but without the gym and juice bar visits to balance that out. And you crave your single girl wardrobe. God forbid the pal that asks you to test her sweet creations.
Even my friends with cleaners still bake. After two successful rounds of breeding I fell straight into alternative galaxy that requires lots of scrubbing and vacuuming, because small people carry unique germs that can induce vomiting in all family members.
And I’m not bad at cleaning. I’m useless at keeping on top of it, granted, but I’d rather clean and have a chef come to the house once a week if I had the choice.
Before Paul Hollywood and Mary Berry lured all these confectioners out of the closet, this latest trend wasn’t even on my radar.
Like Carrie Bradshaw I kept “style magazines in my stove.” And it’s definitely not a fad, it’s gathering momentum, and now my eldest has reached an age where I, because I am a female and females suit pinafores apparently, have a duty to actually teach him to make cookies and this is terrifying because I can barely crack an egg.
I’ve only just recovered from pancake day. He had an intolerance to dairy before, so that was my excuse, but Shrove Tuesday just gone I forced myself to grab a whisk, some flour and beat.
I even swung a frying pan around and squealed “let’s flip” while he was learning to beat, from me, while I followed endless Internet instructions, praying.
Baking is so fashionable it would have made me a bad mother if my son didn’t think I was enjoying myself and so I grinned when my partner groaned, “this is like quiche.”
Luckily no one was poisoned.
So The Great British Bake Off may have gone global, but sorry Nadiya, I’m officially a baking fake.