Here in the south of England we’ve had a beautiful day of cloudless sunshine – a day that shimmered with fresh cold. A good day to do something. I had a little time on my hands so I decided to bake a cake.

Once I’d found the recipe, I set the oven to the right temperature and switched on the radio. Instantly familiar voices swirled in, bringing the world with them.

Fergal Keane was the first I recognised. He spoke about writers whose words had somehow risen out of the darkest of places. I imagined these writings like tiny flags, pinning hopes for better on to an unknown future.

As I sifted the flour, weighed the sugar, and mixed them together the voice changed. Now the talk was of London, where the old ways of remembering stood stiff against those using the city as a billboard for messages of their own.

I broke three eggs into a bowl just as a WhatsApp pinged in from France. Then another message came in from Canada. Both were asking about the parade in London that they were watching on television. The Canadian reported seeing a giant pig on the screen.

I measured out the yoghurt and oil, then added the vanilla and the zest of one lemon. The news in the background switched to Israel and Gaza. Horrific news. Misery pounding its harm. Accounts of hospitals being bombed. The scars of shattered families ricocheting around the world.

I dug in the kitchen drawer for the right spoon, yanked it out and began to fold the cake ingredients together. The fruit was the last to go in, its bright red blotching upwards as I poured the mixture into the tin.

From Iceland there came a report of a possible volcanic eruption.

I opened the oven and slid the cake on to the middle rack, the door thudding closed as I straightened. Through the window I could see the sun shining, and the sky blue enough to jump right into. I switched off the radio, and went outside. The sound of birds filled the air.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023