Bad Cake Australia

When my kids were little, sometimes, we would all go to the Melbourne casino to visit the cake shop. It wasn’t a usual kind of cake shop, it was a wall of gateaux. Each cake was displayed in the window, usually partially cut, so you could peer inside. They seemed to tower 10 feet high and go on for miles.
They were all big, those cakes, and delicious looking. Some had cherries, some had cream, some had other decoration. They made my mouth water. The kids and I could spend ages jumping with excitement at one treat or another. The colours, the temptation, the opportunity. The choice, the idea and imagination. The smell, the sounds, the pleasure of just looking at them.
I only ate there about twice. The first time, the cake I chose was dry and disappointing when actually eaten. I did manage to finish the lot though. The second time, I had a really delicious black forest gateau (my favourite) but I couldn’t finish it, it looked better than it tasted, and I didn’t want to eat it again. Sometimes is better to use your imagination than to have the real thing. 
(This cake story is an analogy for how I feel about male strippers – in case that wasn’t clear as mudcake).

  

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