Madonna's Cake

Guy slowly lent down to his new bride and said, said so softly only
they could hear, 'cake'. Madonna looked up and made a puzzled look, not
at that moment thinking of cake. Thinking though of the road she had
gone. The road from obscurity, of labour, to love. To that divine, all
tingling all-feeling feeling called love.

They passed among the guests with the image of 'cake' still in Guy's
mind. But why 'cake'? Later as they relaxed in their baronial room and
the hot sulphurous waters bubbled in their Scottish bath he looked out
over the loch. It was a day to end all days. And the image of cake
returned to him.

The next morning they got out through the army of press. People waved
at them from their Scottish roads. The world was alight with their joy.
The joy of their wedding, of their commitment to marriage. The romance
of it all. The feeling of big-ness. That the year 2000 had almost ended
with a wedding that eclipsed all news.

Sting embraced them as they entered the Tudor mansion later that day.
Their escape south may mean they could have that time, that precious
time before the world pushed its nose in again. At dinner they cracked
jokes, talked of love. Talked of the times they had had. Of meeting. Of
the fortuitous meeting of them. Met among the stardom, the glitz, the
show-busy-ness of it all.

Smoke curled from the old mansion that night as the days of their new
commitment began. A commitment that had started before, but now
mushroomed before the world. A personal, deep, loving feeling that had
been stamped by the world.

A day later as Madonna and Guy walked in the grounds towards the waters
of the lake she suddenly had an idea.
"Honey?"
"Yes?"
"Honey, what was that thing about cake?"
Guy laughed his chiselled laugh.
"Oh that. Didn't I tell you?"
They had reached the water's side. Ducks, geese and plovers played on
the surface of the glass-like lake.
"No you didn't tell me. But what cake?"
Guy squeezed Madonna through her thick country clothing.
"Cake. I meant it was easy."
She was still puzzled.
"What do you mean? An easy cake?"
He laughed again.
"No darling. I meant it was a piece of cake."
She looked at him and smiled.
"It was a piece of cake. Of course."
"It was easy. It was plain sailing. It was wonderful. That's what I
meant."

The light was falling as they walked back to the house. The horses in
their boxes. The dogs fed. The sound of the country falling asleep. The
skies dulling to blackness as the estate's fields and woods took on
their nocturnal appearance, And far away the ducks and gees prepared
for a fox-free night.

It was cake. As he said. It was good. It was grand. It had a feeling
that still caused him to feel a deep sense of well-being.

Could any day ever equal that day of cake?