The Baker's Bower

Sometimes, I think, it's best to start telling a story by jumping to the end. Especially when that story is still alive and unfolding.

It's Sunday morning and the bakery is open once again. On the sunlit shelves lie gently whispering baguettes,  butter laden pastries and warm, plain loaves.  Sunday bread.  Bread to make you feel good inside and sprinkle a touch of nostalgia over your long, lazy breakfast.

Through the open door to the street outside waft the irrestible scents of the ovens offering.

People fall in haphazardly. 

First are the devout.  Those well dressed for church, behinds still aching slightly from unforgiving pews.

Two croissants go first.  One each for Mr and Mrs Hughes.  A modest celebration for the Sunday table.

Children come next.  A mite shyly they set out on their first solo forays into the world beyond Mum and Dad.  They exchange warm coins for pain au chocolate and leave with the seeds of future memories growing within their minds.

It's an easy time to feel satisfied for the baker.  

Sunday has none of the frantic scramble of Friday and Saturday morning when the public are rushing and scrabbling to buy the items that their checklist demands for a successful weekend.

They amble and browse and hang around a little longer this morning.  They enquire after family and are rewarded with a little more care and attention.  Today if a queue forms people chat, enjoying this continental flavoured ritual.  

Dog walkers make up a lot of the numbers.  Carefully dressed for all weathers they linger outside admiring each others animals.  Certain dogs demand more attention.  These are the superstar dogs of my town, decidedly a doggy hotbed.  It's the done thing these days to patrol the beach with a an exotic breed in one hand and an amply laden dog poo bag in the other.