The Bakery

The golden light of early morning sunshine bathed the village of Shitetippe, mostly because the sun couldn’t be arsed to shine anywhere else, while the deep blue sky shone with the glow of summer. The air, though the day was yet young, already had a warmth that caressed the skin with a gentle touch, but it made Arnold Snodgrass feel sweaty. 

Arnold walked like a man on a mission. He didn’t know what mission, but he looked like he was on one. His task? To purchase a loaf of bread from the Bouncing Baps Bakery at the end of Shitetippe Lane. 

—Oi! Author?

—Yes, Arnold?

—Don’t tell the readers I’m sweating!

—Why?

—They don’t need to know that.

(He was readers, but anyway, I’ll carry on.)

Arnold arrived at the bakery by turning left four times and ending up where he’d been before. Yet there was the bakery. The master baker, Mr Larry Loafe, was a tall man, at least seven feet tall in his socks, but taller because he had flip-flops on, but had one leg longer than the other, by at least four inches. Meaning he walked with an exaggerated limp and leaned when he was standing. 

—Good morning, Mr Loafe, said Arnold. 

—No, Said Larry. 

—Eh?

—It is, in fact, not a good morning, or a morning to be good.

—Oh, why’s that?

—My ovens are on the blink.

—Well, tell them to keep their eyes open.

—What?

—Tell them to—

—I heard what you said. But you seem to think my ovens have eyes.

—You’re the one that said they are blinking.

—Blinking what?

—No, you said, they were on the blink.

—Who?

—Your ovens.

—Ah.

—Well? Are they?

—They were. But they seem quite alright now.

—Good, I’ll have a white cob, please.

—Can’t, don’t have any. I can do you a nice sirloin sliced loaf.

—Pardon?

—No problem. We all get wind now and then.

—No, I meant, pardon, what did you say?’

—Oh, I said: We all get wind now and then.

—No, before that.

—Oh, that. I said I can do you a nice bit of rump sour dough.

—Now look, Mr Loafe, I’m no baker, but I think you are confusing meat products with bread.

—No confusion. I like a pork sandwich.

—Ah yes, me too. But that’s not the point. I’d like a white cob please.

—Certainly, I have a new batch in the oven.

—Great! When will they be ready?

—Next Thursday.

—Eh?

—Yes?

—I can’t have a nice fresh white cob today?

—Of course! Why didn’t you say! Instead of blathering on about meat.

—Right, a white cob then, please.

Mr Loafe turned and selected two brown rolls from a tray behind him. Next to the tray was a model of a cheese grater. 

—Er, Mr Loafe? I wanted a white cob, not brown rolls.

—My ovens are broken. It’s all I have.

—Right, fine. I’ll have those.

—Ten pounds please.

—What? For two brown rolls?

—No! Of course not! That’d be ridiculous. A pound for the rolls. Nine pounds for the service charge.

—I’ll leave it.

Arnold left the bakery and walked back down the lane, the warm sunshine bathing the landscape in a golden glow and the pure blue sky looked like an artist painted it; the air stank of shit because Farmer Giles was muck-spreading.