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 Twelve – The Crack In The Crust
The Queen Victoria Sponge pub was unusually quiet that morning. A low hum seemed to rise from the cellar, like the thrum of an oven warming up — only no one had turned it on.
Dotty Doughnut was crouched near the pantry door, notebook in hand, eyes squinting. “I swear I heard voices again,” she whispered to Fatbread, who was pretending to polish the jukebox but was actually watching the inspector.
Inspector Rye-vita stood behind the bar, scribbling furiously in her notepad. Her crispbread form was unusually stiff today, every corner more angular than usual, her seed-flecked surface taut. She glanced toward the mirror behind the bar and muttered something under her breath that sounded like, “Sequence misaligned… maintain facade… observation mode engaged.”
Pat Bap stormed in from the kitchen. “Oi! What are you really writing in that little note slice of yours?” She leaned across the counter. “You’ve been poking around for days and I still haven’t seen a single official badge. Just crumbs and questions!”
Rye-vita looked up, composed. “Health audit,” she said plainly, “and sociocultural analysis.”
“Sociocul-what?” muttered Fatbread.
Peggy Cherry Bakewell appeared from the snug with Phil the Pudding at her side. “Something’s not right about her,” she said sharply. “She knows too much. Keeps asking about sponge temperature. Who does that?”
Phil narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like it. Never did trust crackers.”
Just then, the lights flickered. The jukebox gave a ghostly whirr. And from the cellar came the faintest echo — like the flick of a switch and a voice, muffled but distinct.
“…respect the sponge…”
Dotty stood bolt upright. “Did you hear that?”
But before anyone could move, Inspector Rye-vita pulled old-fashioned camera from her coat pocket. She raised it slowly, pointed it at the room — and clicked.
A bright flash filled the pub.
When their vision returned, she was gone.
Not a crumb left behind. Not a note. Just the faint smell of custard creams… and an eerie silence.
Dotty, stunned, turned to the others. “Did… did that inspector just bake out of existence?”
Phil shook his head slowly. “I think… we’ve been buttered.”
Fatbread blinked. “Bruv…”
Down in the cellar, the humming stopped.
And Walnutford was quiet once again.
Blind Man Makes 