Yeastenders – Episode Thirteen

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.

 

YeastEnders – Episode Thirteen – Trouble at the Trolley Park

 

The morning in Walnutford began with a crash, a clatter, and a loud “Oi!” as Terry Teacake’s rusting old bread van lurched into the square, knocking over three pastry bollards and flattening the milk delivery bunting.

Fatbread shook his head from the café doorway. “Every week, bruv. That van’s got more smoke than sense.”

Inside the Queen Victoria Sponge, Peggy Cherry Bakewell was rearranging the walnut-shaped beer taps. “Where’s that new nut porter? The hazelnut and treacle one?” she muttered. “I told Ryan Rye to sort the barrels hours ago.”

Ryan Rye was, as usual, not doing any of that. He was leaning on the fence at the edge of the Trolley Park, chatting to Raisin Roxy, the new fruit scone with a sticky past.

“Nice wheels,” he said, nodding to her vintage tartan shopping trolley.

Roxy smirked. “Yours squeaks when you walk.”

“Character, innit.”

Back at the pub, Phil the Pudding arrived with Grant the Spotted Dick, both wearing matching crusty scowls.

“We got a problem,” said Grant, thudding a floury newspaper onto the bar. “Trolley Park’s been tagged again.”

On the cover was a photo — a new one — of the graffiti: a dripping red jam outline of a letter B with a swirl of chocolate under it.

“Is that a gang sign or a dessert topping?” asked Fatbread.

Dotty Doughnut peered over his shoulder. “Or… maybe a warning.”

Just then, a commotion outside drew them all to the window.

A crowd had gathered at the edge of the square. At the centre was a familiar figure — sharply iced, golden-baked, sunglasses on.

Fatbread’s old mate, Crumbs Blunt, had returned.

“Bruv,” said Fatbread, stunned. “I thought you were at that bake-off retreat?”

“Got booted out,” said Crumbs, adjusting his shades. “Apparently adding vodka to your trifle isn’t ‘spirit-forward.’”

Peggy tapped the glass. “You bringing trouble or toppings?”

Crumbs just smiled. “Bit of both, Bakewell. Bit of both.”