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 Twenty – Sister Crumbs
The Queen Victoria Sponge was unusually quiet for a thursday.
Fatbread wiped down the icing-stained bar, eyes darting toward the windows. “Square’s too calm. That’s not a good bake.”
Dotty Doughnut popped up from a booth, arms full of napkins and nerves. “I saw someone again last night. Up by the croissant chimney on Pâtisserie Parade. Watching.”
Phil the Pudding groaned. “We’ve got more eyes in this square than raisins in a teacake.”
Peggy Cherry Bakewell emerged from the cellar with a wooden spoon in one hand and suspicion in the other. “Ever since the jam warning, it’s been crumbs and whispers. We need to get ahead of this before another Buttered Bunch crumb bomb hits.”
“Where’s Roxy?” Grant the Spotted Dick asked. “She’s been laying low since that mess with Ryan Rye.”
Maurice Mille Feuille leaned on the counter, a twinkle in his sugary gaze. “Keeping secrets runs in her filling, no?”
Peggy sighed. “She’s family. Phil and Grant’s cousin. My niece. I know she’s no angel slice, but I trust her.”
“Trust only goes so far,” Phil muttered. “Especially when the jam starts spreading.”
Outside, a clatter of crates startled a flock of pie pigeons. Fatbread peered out the frosting-flecked window. “Just crumpet delivery.”
But upstairs, on the rooftops of Walnutford, a shadow shifted.
The camera followed slowly, craning upward toward the moonlit tiles.
A figure stepped forward — tall, frosted in mystery, her custard-blonde icing streaked with blue.
She looked down on the square like she’d never left.
And then she spoke.
“Roxy always did pick the stickiest places to hide.”
DUFF DUFF DUFF
Blind Man Makes 