The Bakery

          Right now my favourite place would be a bakery. I am starving. I can just taste the freshly made white cottage bread and smooth creamy butter on my tongue. I can smell the warm sweet smell of mince pies in the oven and the sound of me munching on pastry after pastry. No one knows I am there and no one will ever find out. Although they will certainly know someone has been there once I have finished with all this delicious food. I can’t stuff myself quickly enough for my stomach. Out of the window I can see rolling hills and thatched cottages. Trees tower above me and look down on the rest of the world. Villagers bustle around in the morning air and tourists tramp down the street in their walking boots and thick woolly socks over their water-proof trousers, ready for another day of hiking.
         And yet I can not be bothered to even give more than a moments thought about that because, as I finish my last mouthful of that wonderful bread and butter, I hear the ovens timer telling me that my mince pies are done. I carefully get them out of the cooker and place them delicately on a rack to cool, but I can’t resist taking just one bit. Unfortunately, I end up eating every single last one. They were so good: soft, dense pastry encasing rich sweet mince. No nuts. Just the way I like them.
Now for the rest of the food. Shame there will be none left in an hour or so. But right now I couldn’t care less. There is an angel cake, left to cool on the side, by the foolish owner who left me here. I take my time with this one. It is a work of art. A piece of heaven brought down by angels. Good name, whoever chose it. I savour every crumb and lick the plate clean at the end. Beautiful and fluffy, dusted with icing sugar and placed on an ornately decorated dish, it was a cake to be proud of. But that is not what matters. I carry on eating all of the warm, delectable bread and crusty, crumb-making cake.