Three times a year, I would be reminded that I was not, in fact, a cake expert but a sleep-deprived mother fuelled by blind optimism, a packet of cake mix and zero useful utensils. As I attempted to create the perfect buttercream, I would curse my rookie naivety. Each birthday, I vowed to buy a proper icing knife or one of those fancy turntable thingies. I would then promptly forget this vow until the eve of the next birthday.