As I was casually lying on the floor last night, watching a “boy from wrong side of the tracks meets privileged girl” movie with Miss M, the phone rang. “Yeah, what’s so great about that?” I can almost imagine you asking. Picture a supposedly fit personal trainer getting up off the floor, twisting their knee in an odd direction, and hearing two of the most loud and hideous pops known to human kind, followed by pain rating about 8 on the Richter scale.

In fabulous irony, whoever was on the phone had hung up, or wasn’t talking - whatever, I had wrecked my knee for no good reason. If it had been a cute guy - maybe then it would’ve been okay.  But he would’ve had to have been super cute. So I tested whether I could put weight on it - affirmative. Pushed on it to see if it hurt - negative. But there was a weird sensation inside the joint - heavy and warm, but not in a good blanket kind of way.

I was most concerned about being able to ride my bike - essentially if I can’t, I’m in big trouble. Happily, riding didn’t cause a problem. Running was out today, which was disappointing, because I was going to try and break 5k’s, but that’s cool, I’m in a zen period, and I can handle it. Everything was going brilliantly until I was teaching my Yummy Mummies class, and got into position to demonstrate Downward Facing Dog, which made my knee slightly rotate, crunch, and me fall to the floor with a loud expletive. I imagine this was slightly concerning for the women involved, but I quickly explained, while cradling my poor knee to my body. For the rest of the class, I was slightly less vigorous about demonstrating. It’s still warm and heavy, and I have a feeling if that feeling doesn’t go away tomorrow, I’m going to be visiting my wonderful osteopath for some treatment.

In a truly dodgy segue, it’s Miss M’s eighth birthday on Thursday. She’s very excited, in a way only a child can be about a birthday. I feel a sense of “meh, whatever”, whereas she’s over the moon about the whole thing. One of the most important birthday rituals is the baking of cupcakes - many, many cupcakes - to take to school. Last year, because I made them for her party as well, I baked over 65. Happily, this year, only 34 had to be made. I got off lightly.

Pilchen, who is addicted to carbohydrate, and clearly needs a dietary therapist, nearly ruined last year’s efforts by stealing a cupcake in a lightening raid. Luckily it was rescued before damage was done, so this year, I made sure she was locked away safely before I put the cakes on the table to cool. I was pouring the batter for the second batch into the pans, when I had to check something in the living room. I discovered Mr Dog had decided to follow in the filthy cat’s footsteps and had stolen a cake from the table. Who says animals help to relieve stress?

He had the good grace to look chastened as I locked him out, then safely stowed the cakes in an animal proof zone, where they’re staying until they’re iced tomorrow and taken away on Thursday. Happily, I was able to stretch the second batch to make up for the missing one, or that dog would’ve been toast. Or maybe brioche. Or is it cake?

Today I’m loving: the chicken soup I made which accidentally turned into congee, and was even better than I’d hoped