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. As he walked, he used a battery-powered fan to blow cooling air on his face.

Arnold walked like a man on a mission. He often walked like a man on a mission. On account of the fact that he objected to ambling. He saw no point at all in ambling, strolling or other forms of perambulation that didn’t involve just getting on with it. His task on that fine morning? To purchase a loaf of bread from the Bouncing Baps Bakery at the end of Shitetippe Lane.

The Bouncing Baps Bakery had local notoriety not least because the smell of fresh bread baking circulated the town to the point where many people attempted to bottle it. Or trap it in aerosol cans. For disseminating later in the day.

Arnold arrived at the bakery by turning left four times and ending up where he’d been before. Yet there was the bakery. He once decided to try and tamper with geography itself by turning right four times but he ended up where he’s been the previous Tuesday which confused him immensely.

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?” This reply, if you knew Larry, was not unusual. Arnold only thought he knew Larry.

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

Arnold considered that for a moment and realised he had no answer. “Oh, why’s that?”

Larry pulled out three trays of bread rolls from the ovens behind him. “My ovens are on the blink.”

“Well, tell them to keep their eyes open.”

“What?”

“Tell them to—”

Larry threw a pair of oven gloves with a Gingham pattern over his shoulder with the skill and dexterity of a man well-versed in the fine art of oven glove throwing. “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.” Arnold pointed at the ovens.

“Who?” Larry dusted flour on the steel table in front of him.

“Your ovens,” said Arnold.

“Ah.”

“Well? Are they?”

“They were. But they seem quite alright now,” said Larry, wafting heat from the front of the ovens with a hand the size of a small shovel.

“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 sourdough.”

Arnold wasn’t having that at all. “Now look, Mr Loafe, I’m no baker, but I think you are confusing meat products with bread.”

Larry blinked, dusted flour from his hands and pulled three more trays from the oven. Upon them were 36 white cobs. “You sir, seem a tad confused about where bread and meat come from.”

“I’m not. Bread is made with flour and water, meat comes from animals.”

“What?” Larry scratched his chin with the handle of a mixing spoon. “Sir, I believe you to be misinformed. Meat, as you say comes from animals. As does bread. So the confusion isn’t mine. And I like a pork sandwich.”

“Ah yes, me too. But that’s not the point. I’d like a white cob please.” Arnold wondered if there was any chance of him getting a cob for his breakfast.

“Certainly, I have a new batch in the oven,” said Larry.

“Er, right. What about the three trays there? Couldn’t I have one of those?”

“What? No. They are for the school.”

Arnold thought that was a bit mean. He could easily let him have one of the rolls. There was time to bake more for the kids. “Right, When will the new ones 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.”

Arnold thought about correcting Larry on who had been blathering on about meat. But decided against it. “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. Arnold had once asked him what it was for. Larry told him never to ask, so he didn’t.

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

“My ovens are broken. It’s all I have. I told you that already.”

Arnold realised Mr Loafe was either having a bad day, struggling with reality or simply taking the piss.

“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, entirely cob-less. 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.