Image Description: An overhead view of a fictional baked-goods town called Walnutford, designed in the style of a map. A glossy custard river runs horizontally from left to right across the centre of the image, gently curving as it flows. On either side of the river is a bustling town made entirely of baked treats. You can see pies with lattice and star tops, croissants, bread rolls, loaves, tarts, and pastry parcels, all arranged like buildings on a map. Whipped cream puffs and green fondant leaves appear like trees and parks. The ground looks like it’s dusted with fine flour or biscuit crumbs. At the top centre, large white text reads “YeastEnders”, with “Walnutford” in smaller letters below. The entire scene is warm, golden, and surreal – a deliciously baked parody of the EastEnders opening titles.
Episode Eight – Crumbs and Consequences
It’s the morning after the bar brawl, and The Queen Victoria Sponge smells of burnt toast, bruised ego, and victory sponge crumbs.
Peggy Cherry Bakewell is already scrubbing jam off the skirting boards. Her bouffant icing swirl is slightly lopsided, her cherry held on with a cocktail stick, but her pride is fully intact.
Phil the Pudding slouches in with a bruised glaze and a limp raisin stuck behind his ear.
“Mum,” he groans, “Grant’s snoring shook the cake stand off its shelf. Twice.”
Behind them, Grant the Spotted Dick appears in the doorway of the pub kitchen, stretching his arms like rising dough. He’s shirtless, steam still radiating from his thick crust.
“I don’t snore,” he mutters. “I simmer.”
Dot Crumble glances up from her usual seat, her glasses repaired with jam labels and sticky tape.
“Well, you certainly stirred things up yesterday,” she says. “Rye-an and the crusts haven’t been seen since they fled.”
Stacey Swiss Roll enters with a newspaper. “There’s a letter in The Almond Advertiser calling the brawl ‘a stain on Walnutford’s good name’. Signed anonymously — but I can smell Chantelle’s hand-rolled sesame ink all over it.”
Peggy narrows her eyes. “Let her write what she likes. The only thing we stained was Rye-an’s ego.”
Just then, the door creaks open. Sharon Scone walks in slowly. Her glaze is uneven. Her cherry, missing.
Everyone stops.
Peggy folds her arms. “Well?”
Sharon lowers her eyes. “Dennis Danish… he’s gone.”
Dot raises an eyebrow. “Gone where?”
“He packed up his pastry cases last night,” Sharon says, voice cracking. “Left a note. Said he’s going back to Viennoiserie.”
Phil mutters, “Typical Danish. Flaky to the end.”
Peggy sighs. “I told you, love. You can’t trust a man with that many layers.”
Grant steps forward. “You alright?”
Sharon nods. “I think so. Just… wish I’d seen through the filling earlier.”
Peggy softens. “Come on then. Back behind the counter. We’ve got raisin loaf to price up.”
Outside the pub, a figure watches from across Almond Square. Cloaked in a crumb-dusted coat, notebook in hand, she scribbles into the margin.
“Fascinating,” she says to herself. “Absolutely… fascinating.”
Duff duff duff… a pencil snaps in the mist.
Blind Man Makes 