Yeastenders – Episode Eleven –

Yeastenders – Episode Eleven – -New Crumbs on the Block

 

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.

 

The Queen Victoria Sponge is unusually quiet after Fatbread’s late-night Bakebeats party. There are empty mugs, icing smears on the walls, and someone has spelled “Respect the Sponge” on the counter in alphabet biscuits.

Peggy Cherry Bakewell wipes it clean with a sigh. “Why does jam always end up in the ceiling fan?”

Phil the Pudding groans from beneath a tea towel. “Because Fatbread dropped the beat while flipping flapjacks.”

Fatbrea§d, still wearing one chocolate button headphone, shrugs. “What can I say? The dough was rising.”

Grant the Spotted Dick enters from the cellar, steam still coming off his crust. “That inspector’s still here, by the way. In the pantry. Talking to herself again.”

Dot Crumble pauses mid-sip. “She’s not alone down there. I heard… another voice.”

Everyone freezes.

“Another voice?” Peggy asks.

Dot nods. “Soft. Unusual. Like a whisper through the wire racks.”

Fatbread frowns. “There’s no signal down there. Only static… and sometimes the fridge hums in D minor.”

Just then, the pub door slams open.

In storms a short, leopard-print iced bap with towering sugar earrings and a handbag like a battering ram.

“Where is she?” barks Pat Bap.

Peggy straightens. “Pat.”

“You let her in here?” Pat shouts. “A rye-coated inspector with no badge and suspicious stitching? She shut down my crumpet club in Clapton!”

“She said she was official,” Dot Crumble whispers.

Pat huffs. “So did the guy who tried to sell me vegan dripping.”

Grant stands up. “We’ve been watching her. She’s been scribbling notes about everything from our tea temperature to the number of cracks in my crust.”

From behind Pat, another figure appears — young, pink-iced, and carrying a duffel bag dusted with sherbet.

“Gran?” she says.

Dot Crumble gasps. “Dotty?”

Dotty Doughnut, sweet-faced but jam-packed with secrets, smiles. Her icing glistens innocently, but her eyes dart toward the cellar.

“Just visiting,” she says. “Thought I’d drop in.”

“You’re early,” Dot says, narrowing her eyes. “You don’t drop in. You roll in when something’s gone wrong.”

Peggy sighs. “Alright, enough with the entrances. Fatbread, mop. Phil, sponge rotation. Dotty, sit. Pat, stop waving your handbag.”

Fatbread salutes. “Yes, Bakewell.”

From the cellar, a low mechanical whirr echoes faintly — like the hum of something thinking.

Dot Crumble glances down.

“Listen,” she whispers. “It’s back.”

Peggy frowns. “What is?”

Dot blinks. “That voice. It’s faint… but I swear it said…”

She leans closer.

“…‘Observation mode engaged.’”

No one moves.

Fatbread whispers, “That ain’t no proving drawer, bruv.”

Duff duff duff… the pantry light flickers.