8 p.m. is creeping near and I’m restless. I don’t know what to do with myself. I want to pace the room and at the same time lounge on my sofa and focus really hard on not moving a muscle.
I put the telly on and flick through the channels. Boring. Boring. Depressing. Too happy. Naff. Repeat. Repeat. Another repeat. It’s all crap. Hundreds of channels and nothing to watch.
I lope up the stairs and grab a nail file and some varnish. I get to work on my jagged stumps of fingernails but there’s not much to redeem them. Perhaps painting them will only draw attention to the slivers of skin which are peeling up around them.
Everything is futile.
I pick up a book instead. Words. Words and words and words and they’re not going into my head at all. I read the opening paragraph three times without quite knowing what it says and then I toss the tome onto the floor with a sigh.
There is a job I’ve been needing to do for a while. I traipse back downstairs and to the DVD shelves. I retrieve every single case and stack them in great, wobbly towers on the floor. Start with the A’s, I suppose. I rifle through the movies, muttering names under my breath, sighing as my back cricks and cracks with the bending and the straightening and the bending and the straightening. And then I get to the B’s and it all becomes too much.
‘Cos B is for Bake Off. The Great British Bake Off. The only show worth watching. The one that ended this time last week. The one that has left a great, big, showstopping hole in my heart.
What am I going to do without it? How will I fill my Tuesday nights until it comes back around next summer? Will I ever find another excuse to eat my body weight in cakes and pastries and pies in front of the telly?
For the love of baking God Paul Hollywood, when will the Great British Withdrawal Symptoms dissipate?!Follow Ellie Scott on WordPress.com