Fridge cake in a clean fridge

I went to a hilarious aerobics class. It was quite clearly targeted at stay at home Mums with pre pubescent kids. The class was at 10am, obviously a time no working Mum could make; it was bursting with expat housewives, all in dedicated dance gear; and the trainer, a bouncy and bubbly girl with pigtails and an endearing manner threw in One Direction references throughout the class. A great set of routines, this: there was absolutely no bar to set, you just threw yourself into the rhythm. Instead of walking out in disgust, my superior nose in the air, I had loads of fun. Ah, how the orthopaedically challenged are fallen. Not that long ago I was pumping iron with the best of them. One knee injury and one new foot later, I am relegated to the mid morning beginners Ricky Martin danceathon slot. But look, not only was it unexpectedly good fun, I came out streaming, aching, and if I am brutally honest, feeling more than a little bit sexy. All that hip wiggling. Amazing what it does to the hormones. Perhaps I am a bit closer to understanding the uproar over Miley's opportunistic twerk. Anyway. I come home feeling very virtuous, and cement my place in Heaven by deciding to Tackle The Fridge. This as anyone knows, is a horrendous task, particuarly if you are a foodie and you hoard stuff in the fridge door because Delia has it, or Nigella said you have to have it, or worst of all, you have attempted an Ottolenghi recipe - no recipe by Mr O uses less than 150 ingredients, each scorchingly hard to procure, which then wither gently in the fridge over the course of the year. If that is you, and it sure as hell is me, then clearing out of the fridge rivals Greek myth. And it requires serious motivation to achieve. I discover that in fact a whacky dance class at my local gym is not quite the push I need. What I need is to bake something fridge related, to balance the awfulness of cleaning out and recycling pots a third full of indeterminate goo, the rest of the jar full of white mould. Fortuitously, the Times is running a foodie piece featuring recipes by Gordon Ramsay and one of them is a recipe for a fridge cake. It has salted peanuts and dried cranberries in it. And chopped up pink marshmallows and white marshmallows (actually Gordon does not specify the colours but my imagination fills in the gaps). It gives you the choice of milk or dark chocolate and I promptly choose milk. Chocolate, butter and syrup get stirred into an unctuous paste, to which, when it cools, my chopped up nuts, mallows and fruit are added, the whole lot poured into a square tin, mashe down hard with a spatula, and consigned to the fridge. I prepare each part of this cake in between emptying a fridge shelf, cleaning it with anti bacterial stuff and putting it back again with less than half its previous occupants. On to one of these I then place my baking tin. Oh, the anticipation of it!! I can't wait for it to harden enough to try it, and obligingly it is hard enough in a couple of hours. By which time the fridge is pristine, and I am exhausted and ready for a cup of tea and a slice of my motivational creation. Clean fridge and fridge cake. It's not rocket science.