Whilst decorating a multiple-tier wedding cake in my kitchen for a client in April 2024, I received a call from a very serious sounding lady at Chichester District Council who said: ‘We’ve received an anonymous complaint about you from one of your neighbours.’
My heart began to thump, my stomach sank.
I’ve lived in my four-bedroom house in the lovely town of Selsey in West Sussex for more than five years, count a number of my neighbours as close friends, and think of myself as a considerate and helpful member of the street on which I live.
You might imagine the mystery neighbour’s gripe to be about an overhanging tree or a fence dispute – the usual things that make headlines after they’ve escalated into full-blown war.
Astonishingly, their beef was with the very pretty, successful ‘cake shed’ I ran from my front garden, and specifically the number of customers who visited every Saturday – the only day I opened it – to buy homemade bakes, such as brownies and cupcakes.
Sometimes known as honesty-box bakeries, cake sheds have boomed in gardens and driveways across the country, with reports of owners who operate them full-time making up to £1,000 a week.
I myself made a modest income to top up my regular salary as a baker of bigger celebration and wedding cakes.
The council worker continued: ‘They are concerned about the number of people toing and froing to your house and, indeed, entering it.’
Lucy Scott says a neighbour complained to her local council about the successful cake shed she ran from her front garden and the number of customers who visited every Saturday
Sometimes known as honesty-box bakeries, cake sheds have boomed in gardens and driveways across the country
I put her right straight away: the only people setting foot inside my home were my husband, our five children aged seven to 20, plus other family and friends, the same as always.
Everyone else was simply visiting the pastel-painted wooden cupboard in my garden to help themselves to cake.
My stress levels instantly soared as did my suspicions. Who’d got it in for me, I wondered? I felt incredibly upset, and the idea that someone would do such a thing really knocked my confidence.
Just a few days later, a neighbour I occasionally say hello to confronted me about the number of cars coming and going on Saturdays. She sounded annoyed but at least had the courtesy to tell me in person.
I gently reassured her that I would put a note on future social media posts that people should please park in the large residents’ car park when visiting the cake shed, which is about 30m from my home.
Within a couple of weeks, I received another call from a different lady at the council to report a second anonymous complaint. This time the busybody in question claimed my cake shed was attracting rats to the area. What nonsense!
Though she shared my incredulity, she asked if she could come out to do an inspection, which I was happy to accommodate.
Having been a professional wedding and celebration cakemaker for around 14 years, I pride myself on the standards in my large kitchen and have long held a five-star Food Hygiene rating based on council inspections, certification which is required by all food outlets.
Customers drove for up to three hours to buy from the shed after seeing Lucy’s cakes on TikTok
I also had written permission from the council to sell cakes from my property.
‘Your home and your garden are beautiful and spotlessly clean,’ she exclaimed, when she arrived a few days later, recognising how house-proud I am. ‘There are no problems here at all, complaint dismissed.’
Still, the complaints were unsettling and they were beginning to feel like a sustained attack on me in my own home. Increasingly, I eyed neighbours with suspicion and imagined their curtains twitching.
My reason for opening the shed in the first place had been to replace the income that I had lost after closing a successful tearoom I owned on the local high street when the hours became too much alongside having a young family.
My loyal customers had apparently missed my baking and began to tag me in social media posts about cake sheds, all with the same message: ‘You should do this.’
After sketching out a business plan, based on the quantities I sell at artisan and food markets and the financial return, I realised that even selling from a shed once a week would add a healthy amount to my earnings.
In February 2025, at the age of 35, I spent a few hundred pounds on a tall, slim shed (little bigger than a glorified store cupboard) plus paint and faux flowers to decorate it.
When I posted a reel of a friend and I building it on TikTok, it generated 1.4million views for which the social media platform paid me £800 – I have more than 237,000 followers.
In March that year, the shed went live, chock-full of different flavoured brownies, decorated cupcakes, old-fashioned sprinkle cakes and chunky cookies, selling between £3 to £5.50.
There was a queue the length of my driveway and within two hours everything had sold out.
A Ring doorbell on the shed allowed me to keep an eye on customers via the app on my phone, just to make sure there weren’t any bakery burglars in the area.
I needn’t have worried. Watching customers’ faces as they saw the goodies brought me so much joy – and when I totted up the contents of the honesty box, it wasn’t ever even a penny short. Customers drove for up to three hours to buy from the shed after seeing my cakes on TikTok, which was heartwarming, and some would even record little videos of it to post online, prompting even more customers.
My shed was also a lovely boost to my finances, not just from the cake sales themselves but because TikTok paid me anywhere between 50 and 70 pence per view on the reels I posted, typically netting me around £200 for each post. And I was still making around ten bespoke celebration cakes a week, too.
But the initial thrill was soon deflated by the steady stream of complaints. And what harm was I doing?
As a hard-working mum, the cake shed was a means of adding to the family coffers that keep a roof over our heads and food on the table.
The final complaint the council received was from someone else claiming I was doing all the baking in the garden and – here we go again – attracting vermin as I did so. Utter poppycock. All baking is done in my immaculate kitchen.
Although the complaints were outweighed by the support I received, including kind customers telling me not to give up or to let the naysayers get to me, they wore me down. Complaints and negativity have a unique ability to make life miserable, especially when the people who have a problem with you probably live just metres away, an unnerving feeling that left me paranoid when I bumped into any of them.
I never did find out which of my neighbours reported me to the council but that sense of being scrutinised at close quarters meant my home no longer felt like my sanctuary.
I was heartbroken that people could be so disparaging of what felt like a wholesome venture, which also demonstrated my work ethic to my children.
Then the shed was damaged in strong winds last summer. Although I mended it and opened it a few more times, it was then battered in another storm, ending my plans to fill it for Halloween. Instead, I closed it for good. Or so I thought…
My husband – a site manager in the construction industry – and I sadly separated around the same time and that, coupled with the complaints I had received, sapped my motivation.
Yet a TikTok video I later posted about why I’d closed it – and the complaints I had received – attracted hundreds of thousands of views and countless pleas from loyal followers asking me to reopen.
Now, 20 months later, I am on the cusp of doing just that this summer, partly for all my supportive customers, friends and neighbours and also to boost my finances.
I won’t be worried if I get any complaints this time though. I know I’m not doing anything wrong and that so many people love the shed. This is my way of showing the busybodies who complained last time that they won’t get me down – and can’t get rid of me that easily. You could call it sweet revenge.
As told to Sadie Nicholas
