Thoughts that a career girl denies she is thinking but in reality sometimes is.

A post that could easily unravel decades of bra-singeing.

Sometimes when I am in my kitchen creating the most unseasonably attractive lasagne that ever graced my block of units, a terrifying sensation comes over me. And I am not simply referring to fan-forced oven burns on my right pinky.

I am talking about the feeling that I enjoy baking approximately 15 times more than I enjoy reading affidavits and sitting in meetings and staring at cases on the computer screen until my eyes bleed.

Even vacuuming or dusting or realigning the throw cushions on the sofa to the point of compulsive perfection, sometimes gives me a sense of satisfaction that I don’t get from an effing long day at the office. And I get a weird thrill from writing shopping lists, and Christmas gift lists, and trying out a new dishwashing liquid scent that actually, yes, does smell rather a lot like treated pine in winter.

Day at the office.

Wtf is wrong with me?

As much as I enjoy throwing my handbag on my desk as I walk into my office, and the hit that comes with the first sip of coffee, and the sound of the computer as it comes to life, or the feel of warm printed paper in hand when a task is complete, is it completely stupid and dumb that as a female I sometimes want to be at home baking cupcakes?

But the worst part is, I feel the need to pretend this isn’t so. Like some kind of predatory sexual deviant, I hide my homemaker urges deep in my metaphorical pants.

Perhaps so that all the cash that my official sponsors, The Parentals, were siphoning into my bank account like an intravenous drip through 5 years of university doesn’t seem futile. Perhaps so that every woman who never had a choice doesn’t think I am spitting all over feminism like a crazed neo-corporate-inconsiderate-little-bitch.

What are you baking tonight?

I am making macaroons with white chocolate and raspberry ganache. How entirely, unspeakably, irreconcilably unprofessional.