FORGET putting cafetieres on the hob, there is nothing more homely and welcoming than the aroma of freshly baked cakes.

That’s what I used to come home to as a child. Coming off the school bus, I could almost smell the fruits of my mum’s labours. Not that she saw it as labour. Baking is my mum’s greatest pleasure, and one she practises to this day.

So why haven’t I inherited her passion? The idea of baking cakes fills me with dread. Getting together all those ingredients, bowls, spoons, and the like, then making an awful mess and leaving yourself with a huge pile of washing up. It’s easier to go out and buy something.

So I’m not going to take my cue during National Baking Week and make a dash for the kitchen. Nothing will tempt me, not pictures of mouth-watering cakes in glossy magazines or the million and one cookery programmes on TV. To me, the Great British Bake Off is a Great British Turn Off.

I wish I didn’t feel like this. Every year I look on in envy when my daughter attends a birthday party at which her friend’s mum produces an amazing cake to reflect an aspect of her life. She even sculpted and iced a mini Taj Mahal after a trip to India. Every year the children stand around with bated breath, wondering what will be next.

In contrast, I wait until everyone is about to leave and dart out with my cake, cutting it up before anyone can scrutinise it – and, of course, making sure I place the Tesco box at the bottom of the recycling bin.

The truth is, I find baking boring. People say that the reward lies in the end product – the satisfaction of having made something tasty from scratch. But for me the opposite is true and I enjoy it less if I’ve toiled over a hot stove beforehand, although it is nice to watch others tuck in.

The one thing I do bake a lot of, however, is fruit pies. We have so many apples this year, and I’ve picked sack-loads of brambles, so I’m determined my efforts don’t go to waste. But I don’t see the process as enjoyable.

Maybe if I had a huge country kitchen like Delia I’d have more fun chopping and kneading. But when you’ve got to climb on a chair to drag a bowl from the back of a disorderly cupboard, move the kettle to roll out the pastry, battle to prevent flour spilling all over the floor and stop yourself tripping over the cat, it is more of an ordeal than a pleasure.