Right I've gotta go," I said to mum on the phone.
"Farmers has just opened and I've got an hour and a half to get home, make cupcakes and deliver them up to the school by snack time."
"Then I've got to start on the number seven cake," I added.
"Oh a seven, that should be nice and easy."
I agreed, before hanging up and racing into the half-price children's clothing sale to make some purchases for Master Seven's birthday.
Several hours later, up to my eyeballs in icing, I remembered those words and frowned. How had I managed to screw up a number seven cake?
I blamed the cookbook. You'd think all it would involve was joining two rectangular cakes but apparently I was to cut an angular piece off one of the tops. This was where it all turned pear-shaped - or should I say number one-shaped?
Indeed, it looked like I'd baked my 7-year-old son a cake in the shape of a number one, a distorted one at that. What's more, after slicing several more pieces off in an attempt at a patch- up job, it now had cracks that resembled the Hora Hora rugby grounds post-drought.
The cupcakes hadn't fared too well either. After a rush job I managed to get them to their destination on time but not before they all spilled sideways out their paper cups.
When I turned up to class Master Seven looked embarrassed until he realised his classmates thought I was cool bearing treats.
Back to the cake. Because I only had one loaf tin, I baked two separately. The second was still cooking when it came time to pick the twins up from kindy. I turned the oven right down, jumped in the car and, seven minutes and a lot of arm-tugging later, returned to a house still standing and a cake that was just right.
Then came the disastrous part. After a bowl full of bright yellow icing, the cracks were still there. I'd run out of icing sugar so there was nothing for it but to load the kids back in the car and head to the supermarket. Nearly another packet of icing sugar later and it was still a big mess. The icing I poured down the cracks was just oozing back out the bottom of the cake until the whole platter was covered in thick yellow goo.
I had one hour left to fix it, prepare the rest of the food, blow up balloons and wrap presents before six boisterous boys descended on us.
And then I had a brainwave.
"Guys do you want to come and decorate the cake?" I called to the twins.
Smacking their lips, they eagerly climbed up on the barstools as I handed them a bag of pebbles each.
I envisaged carrying out the brightly hued mess of a cake before six sets of unimpressed eyes. "Look at what your brother and sister have made for you!" I would declare.
But as it happened I didn't need to divert the blame. Come five past three, I heard excited voices coming down the drive and, suddenly, our house was filled with presents, chatter and boys.
They took off and spent the first hour exploring the house, toys and yard before remembering they were hungry. After devouring a bellyful of cheesy chips, burger rings, Cheerios, sausage rolls, pizza and biscuits, they were off again.
We played musical cushions, pass the parcel and pin the nose on the Smurf and then someone remembered the cake. After a quick last-minute touch-up job that managed to disguise any remaining cracks but now with icing about two inches thick, I plonked the (very heavy) cake on the table.
Luckily they were so taken with the Madagascar train I'd stuck on top that imperfections went unnoticed.
Besides they were too full for cake and were off again, leaving me to quickly hide the yellow monstrosity in the fridge before the grandparents arrived for dinner.
"Now how about a piece of the birthday cake to go with supper," said one as they sat down later with cuppas.
"Umm, yeah about that..."
Three of the whales succumbed on the shore.