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 Six – The Verdict Crumbles
The judging tent is silent. A crowd has gathered outside, pies jostling beside éclairs, fairy cakes elbowing past cream buns. All eyes are on Baroness Baklava as she lowers her fork.
Peggy Cherry Bakewell stands tall despite her size, arms folded, cherry gleaming like a war medal. Phil the Pudding looms behind her, arms crossed, custard dripping with pride. Dot Crumble has taken the bold step of sitting directly beneath the judges’ table, her sugar-dusted shawl neatly folded.
Baroness Baklava clears her throat.
“The Bakewell entry,” she says, gesturing to Peggy’s sponge, “is rich, honest, and clearly traditional. A fine treacle sponge. No nonsense. No raisins.”
There’s a rustle of nervous piping across the tent.
“The Ye Olde Crumb and Butter version,” the Baroness continues, turning to Rye-an Crust and Chantelle Chia Bun, “is… ambitious. But unbalanced. And the use of raisins is… unconventional.”
Peggy doesn’t blink. “You mean wrong.”
The Baroness presses her lips into a delicate filo line.
“I mean disqualified.”
A gasp ripples through the crowd. Chantelle stiffens, her glaze cracking slightly. Rye-an looks ready to curdle.
“This is political,” he hisses. “She’s the Queen of the Square.”
“No,” says Dot, rising slowly, pastry knees creaking. “She’s the Queen of the Sponge.”
Back at The Queen Victoria Sponge, celebrations are already brewing. The sponge is back behind glass, under soft lighting. Ale of Raisin is flowing. A commemorative batch of Victory Vanilla Creams is going fast.
Stacey Swiss Roll slaps a poster on the wall: Treacle Justice Served – Free Slice With Every Brew
Peggy raises her cup of Builder’s Brew Loaf Tea. “To family recipes.”
Phil clinks his cup back. “And no raisins.”
In the corner, Sharon Scone glances out the window toward the rival café. Her cherry has been re-centred, but her glaze still looks uncertain.
Dot notices. “You alright, love?”
“I don’t know,” Sharon says. “I thought helping Dennis pass the note would fix things. Instead, I just feel… half-baked.”
Dot pats her gently. “You needn’t worry. That Danish’ll crumble eventually.”
Meanwhile, across the square, Ye Olde Crumb and Butter is dark. Chantelle and Rye-an stand inside, their pastry edges drooping.
“We’re not done,” Rye-an mutters. “This isn’t over.”
Duff duff duff… the shop sign creaks in the wind.
Blind Man Makes 