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 Eighteen: Buns of Allegiance
The Queen Victoria Sponge was unusually quiet.
Broken glass had been swept into a flour bin. The marzipan-wrapped threat now sat in a cake tin labelled ‘Evidence – Do Not Ice’ beneath the bar.
Peggy Cherry Bakewell stood facing the Square, hands on hips, staring at the stillness outside.
“They’re testing us,” she muttered. “Seeing if we’ll flake.”
Phil the Pudding didn’t flake. He simmered.
“Let’s test them right back. I say we bake first, ask questions later.”
Grant the Spotted Dick paced by the fireplace, which now held a tray of rock-hard scones. “We need strategy, not scones.”
Fatbread leaned into the doorway. “What if we had… both?”
Everyone turned.
“I’ve got a contact,” he said, fiddling with the fringe of his flour-dusted apron. “Underground jam raves. Raspberry resistance. Knows exactly who’s still loyal to the Square.”
Peggy raised an icing-sugar eyebrow. “You’ve been holding out on us, Bread?”
He nodded. “Sometimes, the best buns rise in the dark.”
Cut to the shadows of Almond Square…
Sticky Nick lounged beneath the doughnut shop awning, fingers tapping a sugar packet like a drum.
“You spoke to her?” he asked.
Roxy hesitated. “I told her I’m thinking.”
He stepped closer. “Thinking gets you burned. The Bunch doesn’t do half-bakes.”
Roxy’s eyes flashed. “I’m not yours to butter, Nick.”
Before he could reply, Dotty Doughnut dashed out of the bakery.
“Gran’s got news!” she cried, waving a half-crumpled flan flyer. “Someone’s been spotted sniffing around the crusty end of Walnutford.”
Back in the pub, Dot Crumble held up the flyer, her icing sugar glasses sliding down her flaky face.
“It’s him,” she said.
“Who?” asked Phil.
“Fatboy. Or rather — Fatbread. His flyer’s signed.”
Fatbread re-entered with a tray of cinnamon buns and a sly grin. “I said I had contacts.”
“But if you’re in contact with Fatboy,” said Grant, narrowing his jammy eyes, “who else are you in contact with?”
Fatbread looked around.
“Don’t worry. You’ll meet them soon.”
Outside, someone else was watching the Square.
High above the fondant shop, the shadow of a figure in a cherry cloak moved swiftly across the rooftops.
Dot Crumble looked up from her mug.
“I smell something rising.”
And this time, it wasn’t a batch of brownies.
duff duff duff duff duff duff duff duff…
Blind Man Makes 