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‘Isn’t that the sweetest thing in the world?’ I thought, as I pinned my face to the bakery window. Her uniform was as creamy white as the biscuit dough she was making. Handmade Custard Creams, the sign said. I joined the long queue that had formed. The other shopkeepers grumbled at the disturbance to their trade. ‘Such reckless behaviour.’ ‘Doesn’t she think about the consequences?’ ‘It’s against the law.’ But the baker didn’t care. Her motivation was service. Service to a community of sensitive souls. Or that was what she said when, twenty minutes later, I stood at the counter and ordered a box of four. ‘Do you sell
anything else?’ I asked, hoping to make conversation with the purveyor of the most glorious vision of soft baked biscuit I had ever encountered. ‘Oh, no! That would be sacrilege,’ she said. ‘My expectation is that my clients want nothing more from life than a little dignity and the best custard creams in the world.’
So, I took my box of four home and lay on the bed to think of the baker and savour each creamy mouthful.
As I swallowed the last crumb of the last biscuit, my eyes closed, and I saw her again. ‘What did I tell you?’ she said, gracefully transforming her uniform into a pair of the most delicious creamy vanilla wings. ‘My clients want nothing more from life than a little dignity and the best custard creams in the world.’