The Bake Club of Tailflower Lane

THE MUFFLED SOUND OF a lawnmower rocked Louise with its persistent droning. Every once in a while it was interrupted by the baritone voice of Muriel’s personal trainer shouting: One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Over and over again, Cyrus counted from one to 20. From her side of the fence Louise willed him to say 21, even if just once, to break the monotony. Louise could picture her neighbour, decked out from top to toe in pink gym-wear, her long but straggly blond ponytail in full swing as she punched against the trainer’s boxing gloves. Louise sank back further into her seat tired at the thought of all that exercise so early in the morning. The most she could do at 7am was sip on a giant mug of steaming hot tea, sweetened to a syrupy consistency with three-and-a-half teaspoons of sugar and whitened with thick creamy milk from the president’s own dairy farm.

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The Bake Club of Tailflower Lane (pdf)

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