She looked at me

with seduction in her eyes,

the rolling pin

clasped firmly in her hands

and the taste of yeast in the air,

hanging desperately in the clouds

of flour-ing current abandon,

“May I interest you in having a good feel

of my rock hard buns?”, she asked

with the faint whisper of suggestion

lavishly drawing themselves

across her ruby red painted lips.

As her eyes fell upon

the packet of crumpets

I held between my thumb

and forefinger,

I vowed,

to never go in that particular

bakers again.

Ian D. Hall 2016