Real Men (don't) eat cake

Years and years ago, when we lived in England, one of our pals had a significant birthday and we schlepped 500km down the A1 to help him celebrate. After a sketchy start in college (booting his first year exams and having to do Autumn Repeats), he had his knees firmly under the table in one of the big corporate law firms in London - his niche expertise was buying and selling airports and power-stations! A large number of brightly coloured helium filled balloons were bobbing about in the flat the following morning. After a restorative fry-up (are we not Irish? after all), we piled into their car with the balloons and tooled around South East London. Every time a short human hove into view, the car screeched to a halt and the child was presented with a free balloon. Reaction was mixed: surprise, some delight, a lot of bemusement. But at least the balloons got a second life.

I've written about how [last para]the youth of a subsequent generation disdained free sandwiches. Giving the lie to the meme of starving graduate students. At that same hospital, we had a New Irish (Uganda via Botswana) IT guy. He was pretty forthright about not wanting Irish dogoodniks to ship clapped out, refurbed computers to Africa as if everyone sub the Sahara should be grateful to receive our cast-offs.

Did I mention that my aged FiL Pat the Salt left his safe harbour on this Earth to continue his v'yage in the Great Beyond? I did! We waked him at home on Friday and buried him on Saturday and there were soup and sangers at The Generic Majestic Hotel for afters. People came from all over to pay him respeck and many, as you do, brought food. We 2x over catered at the hotel as well and the staff packed up dozens and dozens of sandwiches and handed them to the nearest [bemused, bereaved] member of the family. By Saturday evening, the tide of people was ebbing but the fridge was Full of cake.

I too an executive decision & nipped down the hill to the nearest [R] Direct Provision Centre (there are several in town). I've written before about the shame, bordering on horror, of what we do for asylum seekers and refugees. There were two burly chaps sitting in the garden and I went up, introduced myself and asked [because as a young man Pat had lived and loved among the Hausa in Nigeria] "Are there any Hausa Men here?". They, poor fellows, were naturally confused about the micro-ethno-geography of West Africa and it didn't really matter. Changing tack [are you clocking all the nautical metaphors in this piece?] I asked them where home was. 

• Forget Nigeria", I said, "Iran will do: would you like cake? My agéd father has died and we have buried him today and now we have A Lot of cake. I don't want to offend you but if you would like cake, then I will go home and fetch it.
• Yes we would like cake; will I come and help you carry it?
• There is not that much cake! I will return in 5 minutes.

And it was so! I was assured afterwards that they get enough [cheap] cake in DP Centres because those who cater can ring up some carb Kcals to satisfy the official nutritionist: Don't take them cake; rather bring nuts and fruit. Well, I'm sorry, but we didn't have nuts&fruit, we had cake; and my new Iranian pals were all smiles to get it.