How much frosting should cake have access to?

Day 12 of the Holiday Log

I stared limply at my broken pieces scattered around me and watched helplessly, somewhat defiantly, at the little creatures trying to put me back together.
"Not use that one- it's wrong!" cried one no bigger than my hand with large pointy ears and glittering emerald eyes, to another with a rather unfortunately large rounded nose and out-turned feet as it carried what looked like a shard of my leg. Skin. It looked like a thin slice of skin.
The large-nosed creature shrugged and tried to push it into a smaller opening in my foot. The piece grated against my skin like glass. I winced.
"Wrong!" a third creature with a small tuft of brown hair at the very top of his head, big pale square hands and a pouch tied around his hips like a loincloth, slapped it right out of the second creatures hands.
"Oi! 'Twas the right!"
"Twas the WRONG!" shrilled the third in a voice like a bird. "You always do the wrong!"
The second creature pushed the third. "I do the right! Always!"
"You are opposite! Since birth!" the third pushed back, and I was thinking in the back of my mind, just how long are they going to take here? What happens when I need to pee? Because I will, at some stage, and it just won't work if I haven't all the pieces.
(I turn to the elderly lady and say, "I have to mention, I had NO IDEA if they were male or female. None."
"Egcht," a glop of mayonnaise falls onto her shirt but I pretend not to notice because that's what bench-buddies are for.
"They were like little goblin ornaments made out of clay," I continue wholeheartedly, "and they fought like family. Or... like warriors all geared up for battle but without the spears."
"Spears?" the lady echos.
"Yes. You know, those long pointy, um, sti-"
"I know what spears are, youngin', and be sure to remember that I wasn't born yesterday out of a trash can."
Phew, I think, I had been worried.
"No, but," I continue, as if she hasn't just called me a 'youngin' and I didn't just voice concern that I don't actually feel inside my own head for no reason, "they tried really hard. I have no idea why. Why would they come, so little and thin they were, and try for ages to put bits of me back? I probably didn't even need putting back."
I try to remember exactly how I ended up in that state, but it's all a blank space. Like fog.
"Why were you in pieces in the first place?" the lady asks before taking another bite of her sandwich.
"I... Uh, I don't know..."
"Hmph. And you say they fought like family."
"Like actual intent to murder each other."
"Well, well..." the lady seems intensely satisfied. I study her wispy white hair for signs of freshness; evidence of a recent good wash that brings out the shine and contentment among susceptible users, but it's oily at the top, clumpy, and frizzy at the ends.
"What exactly is your name again?" I ask, because confusion always makes me curious. Curiosity is far more exciting to feel in times of helplessness. It earns respect and admiration. Confusion earns frowns and a possible eye-roll or punch in the face.
"Yugasma Matilda Emerald Archibald."
I ask, "Are you shitting me?"
She says, "No. That is my exact name."
"What about your actual name?"
"That is Paypine."
"No it isn't."
"Now," the lady licks her fingers one by one and I sit there, watching the wind blow her hair, and I think, can a person have too many names? And if so, how many is the correct amount?
"You must tell me how you got all your parts together," she finishes, and looks at me.
I narrow my eyes at this mysterious yet atrociously identifiable woman. "Your hair was grey last week," I accuse in a low voice.
"It changes at will," she replies in a calm tone without defense or humour.
"Being as that may," I press on, giving my head a good shake and sending a silent yet probably very deadly and powerful prayer to Allah, "I still don't und-"
"Now you see lassie!" the woman, Paypine, suddenly jabs me in the knee with a shiny walking stick.
"Is it made of pure gold?" I gasp. Tears of mild pain well inside my eyes. Awe may be bubbling away in a little corner of my heart. (But really, the real motive here is the burning need for that amazingly awesome staff- stick. It's a stick. A solid gold, enormously expensive stick. Not magical...)
"It is pine. Like my name. Now, get back to your story!"
"Story?")