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 Nine – The Woman with the Crumb Notebook
It’s a grey morning in Walnutford. The custard river glistens in the drizzle, and The Queen Victoria Sponge has reopened with a sign in the window: “No Fighting. No Raisins. No Refunds.”
Inside, Peggy Cherry Bakewell is arranging pastries on the display tray. Her cherry’s been re-glued and her icing swirl stiffened into full battle mode.
Phil the Pudding nurses a sore shoulder at the bar. “I still can’t believe Grant slept through the milk delivery.”
Grant the Spotted Dick grunts from the corner, halfway through a treacle bacon bap. “Didn’t sleep. I was meditating.”
Dot Crumble raises an eyebrow. “On a baking tray?”
Before Peggy can reply, the pub door opens. A stranger steps in — long crumb-dusted coat, notebook clutched tight, spectacles sliding down a custard-smeared nose.
She scans the room.
“Morning,” she says. “Name’s Rye-vita. Food inspector.”
Everyone freezes.
Peggy squints. “Health, safety, or drama?”
“Bit of all three,” Rye-vita replies. “I’ve been asked to conduct a surprise bakery audit. And I’ve got questions.”
She strolls behind the counter without asking.
“Who authorised your jam certifications? Who grades your ganache?”
Peggy tuts. “I’ve been hand-icing since before you were a flour dusting.”
Phil whispers to Grant, “This one’s trouble.”
Grant nods. “Too smooth. I don’t trust a rye base.”
Meanwhile, across Almond Square, Chantelle Chia Bun stands at the window of Ye Olde Crumb and Butter, watching.
“She’s gone in,” she mutters.
Rye-an Crust groans from under a cold compress. “Let her. That pub’s a mess.”
Chantelle smiles. “Exactly.”
Back at the pub, Rye-vita flips open her notebook.
“Tell me,” she says, “what exactly happened last week? I’ve received… multiple reports. Of violence. Sabotage. Jam misuse.”
Dot Crumble gasps. “Jam misuse?”
Rye-vita nods. “It’s a Category B offence.”
Peggy folds her arms. “If you want answers, you’ll have to stay for lunch. We’ve got nothing to hide.”
Rye-vita eyes the menu. “Very well. I’ll try the Victory Sponge. And a Builder’s Brew Loaf Tea.”
As she sits, Sharon Scone leans across the bar to Peggy.
“Do you think she’s really from the council?”
Peggy whispers, “She’s too well iced. I reckon she’s digging for more than just hygiene ratings.”
Outside, a delivery van pulls up.
A voice rings out: “Delivery for the Queen Vic! Got six trays of sugar-topped swagger and one triple-chocolate beatbox!”
Phil frowns. “What?”
The door swings open.
In rolls a tray — fresh from the oven. Dressed in golden crust, chocolate buttons, and a raspberry baseball cap turned sideways.
It’s Fatbread.
Duff duff duff… the tray clicks into place on the floor.
Blind Man Makes 