I run downstairs in my half-open dressing gown and grab the baguettes.

Owning a café in a small village allows my son to see lots of different professions at work. There’s the Veg Man, the Pop Man and the Honey Man, but the one who has caught his eye is the Bread Man.

I find this confusing. Bread Man gets up early (much earlier than the Honey Man), he works in a hot environment and sets unrealistic minimum bread orders for cafes in small villages. I can see why the Bread Man does this to a point, he needs to make sure his efforts don’t go to waste, but having to accept 50 baguettes a day is setting the bar a little high for us.

I can’t eat 50 baguettes a day, I’ve tried, and there aren’t enough baguette lovers in the village, unless they are all secretly eating baguettes in our rival café.

Initially we tried to persevere with the intense bread orders but the surplus was stacking up in my back porch, which was annoying because I like to block up my back porch with coats my family and I never use. I even tried to re-purpose the bread by making my son some bread boots (see pic), but they didn’t catch on. They weren’t very good in the wet apparently, or the dry.

All this aside, the overriding problem was the Bread Man’s insistence on delivering bread in the middle of the night. Unable to get to the café to meet him, we asked him to deliver the unsellable 50 baguettes to our house. At 4am every morning he would slam the letterbox, bend over, put his mouth to the opening and shout: “Bread! Bread!” This would startle me somewhat and I would reach under the bed for my ‘nightstick’, which is a stick I have not yet been bothered to find or put under my bed to ward off intruders.

I would then run down stairs in my half-open dressing gown and grab the baguettes. The bread would then be swiftly spirited into the back room where I would count it to make sure I had 50 baguettes I couldn’t sell as opposed to 49; I didn’t want to be ripped off.

For some reason, after seeing all this, my son thinks the life of a bread man is somewhat romantic, akin to the adventures of a Musketeer; a Musketeer who oversells baguettes and regularly sees half-naked men in dressing gowns waving around invisible nightsticks.

I think the moral of the story is that if you ever go into a sandwich shop, or café, and they have run out of bread it is not for the want of trying.

Note. A few people have asked me if I have a pet name for my imaginary nightstick. Well, I have three imaginary names I can’t decide between, they are: Dr Damage, The Facilitator and Stick Astley.

This blog is currently being serialised in The Squeaker.

http://www.pudseysqueaker.co.uk/

My radio app has got stuck on a Belgian station. The upside is that there’s minimal DJ chat and you are introduced to new artists. As a result, some of these blogs have been written to Belgian rap (you’ve probably noticed how this has shaped my writing) but this heavily bread-based blog was created as I listened to Lady Linn. Please think of my bread troubles as you listen to her.

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