This morning I woke up to find the black dog panting at the edge of my bed. I stayed there, wavering between ignoring it and tearfully wallowing in its presence. I read my book and wallowed for a while and the luthier brought me tea. Being the household IT help desk, it was computer issues that finally dragged me out of bed. A school research project about AC/DC is due tomorrow and the interwebs weren't working. Of course it was sorted with the usual 'turn it off and on again' technique which has earned me my help desk reputation. Technical problems fixed so that hard rock research could continue, I resolved to further shake the black dog from my cardigan ties. To drag me from my malaise I decided to make cup cakes. Pink ones. It worked, even though I let the smalls help. The creaming of butter and sugar, the cracking of eggs and the waft of vanilla have a very restorative effect. As does the warm scent of cooking cake and the spreading of lemon flavoured butter cream. As the little cakes cooled on the rack, us Smiths departed to play footy at the park. On our return, I sat down quietly to a hot, strong cup of tea and a single pink cup cake with a silver cachous on a small floral plate, and the dog was sent packing.