Organised and Coordinated Random Act of Kindness

I squeezed the life out of the bag in repulsive pulses. I was becoming dramatic to entertain myself. I really wanted this over and done with. The effort was colossal and my hands were starting to cramp. I grunted slightly, as the creamy goop oozed out the tiny hole at the end. The pungent smell turned my stomach and I couldn’t believe I was doing this again, at this time of night. I should have more respect for myself.

I had stopped enjoying it a long time ago. My auntie taught me some amazing tricks that punters couldn’t believe I could do, especially at my age, with such little experience. I was frequently asked for business by many people, through word of mouth, of course. Sometimes they were repeat customers, but I was always nervous and often turned down the offers of work.

The money was good, and I really needed it, but I never felt I deserved it based on my amateur skills. It might not be the professional standard they were expecting. It might spoil the party, so to speak. I was a labourer and I was always relieved when it was all over and I could wash the crusted remains from my hands, hair and clothes, and get some sleep, swearing this was the last time.

I sometimes wish the photos had my face in them, not just my hands or legs, but I was afraid of the judgement, especially when I was training to be a teacher. I couldn’t afford to have my face and a random penis together in a picture arising in my 30s, when I was trying to be a role model for children.

About halfway through the job, I noticed that my feet were getting numb. I relocated and finished on my knees in the living room, with the help of a footstool. I zoned out as I started with the scissoring. Such a trade secret and the effect was worth the effort.

I sighed and stretched, letting out a couple of groans, mostly to let the pets know that I was still there, and not to get a fright. I had reached the point of no return. I had to see this through, even if it took all night.

I slept on top of the covers that night, limbs and mind exhausted, a sweet sticky smell stuck in my nostrils and a bitter clawing taste at the back of my tongue.

The next morning, I lifted the phone to my best friend. She was outside and had brought her dad’s Volvo so it would fit in the boot. She laughed when I said I didn’t have a board big enough and I had to cover an old cupboard door that my dad gave me.

Later, at the party, my cake was placed on top of the baby grand piano and Kirsty’s parents thanked me many times for the surprise model of their guesthouse on the hill, the place where most of us had worked and would soon have to say goodbye to. My stiff hands were worth it for the grass effect. It was the most impressive job yet.

‘Are you a professional baker?’ I was asked by a professional baker.

I looked down at my stained green fingers and imagined making rude and ostentatious cakes for a living.

‘No, just for fun!’ I replied.