I seem to be rubbish at all trades, master of nothing

Rab attempts the art of baking – having tracked down the last lonely bag of flour and done some enthusiastic mixing, it was time to see whether the proof was in the pudding

I’ve discovered something else I’m rubbish at – baking. I’d got the idea, even before the pandemic bit, that it might be nice to bake a cosy teacake. But by the time I got down to the supermarket for flour, the shelves had been cleared of it. Everyone else had had a similar idea. It reminds me of when I was househunting pre-lockdown. You’d think you’d discovered an area where prices were cheaper, and that you were the only one to notice this. Then you’d head there surreptitiously, only to find yourself part of a great caravan of people who’d had exactly the same idea at exactly the same time.

Basically, every time you think you’ve discovered such a place, thousands of people will be thinking the same – and the price will be rising even as you’re pulling on your shoes.

However, back to baking. Eventually, I got a bag of flour (the only one remaining) and followed a recipe discovered online. The cake, complete with glaze, looked so lovely that I took pictures of it. Then I committed the fundamental error of tasting it.

Actually, the taste was fine. But the consistency was like hard rubber. I went back online and concluded there’d been two possibilities – I’d put in too much flour and muscovado sugar, as it had specified cupfuls and I’d used mugs. Or I’d stirred the ingredients too severely which, if I’ve read things right, can make things over-glutinous.

So, I tried again, with cups instead of mugs, and not mixing the ingredients so enthusiastically. I got a new cake tin, round instead of oblong. Once again, the cake looked great. Once again, I took photies. Once again, it tasted right chewy and I needed a hacksaw to slice it.

My morale plummeted. So I took a walk out in the garden and looked at all the dying plants that I’d planted. Gardening. Something else at which I’m – all together now – rubbish!

I don’t understand this. When I was a child, I excelled at everything except handwriting, chores, singing, dancing, staying clean, chewing my food properly, and walking in an upright manner. Then

I grew up and became rubbish, or at best vaguely competent, at everything. Rubbish at all trades, master of nothing.

Maybe – no offence – you’re the same. I’ve spoken to friends who agree we’re not the DIY men our fathers were. But some men are, and I suppose my pals are from the useless, arty side of things.

Shouldn’t that make us good at gardening? Nope. Because gardening is also a practical business. I see other people – women especially – creating colourful, tasteful gardens as if they had a magical wand.

They’ve got the touch. But I won’t be touching self-raising flour, raisins, muscovado sugar or mixed spice for some time to come, unless I try putting the self-raising flour on the flower beds to see if it makes anything come up.

As for muscovado, I don’t even know what that means. Is it Mexican for “useless”? You’ll be appalled to know that I left a raisin out for the wee solitary moose I sometimes catch scampering across the kitchen floor.

At least he says: “Thanks, Rab. I don’t think you’re rubbish.”