27 November 2008
Bapps and Buns
AS I stood contemplating my next move, my ponderings were suddenly interrupted by the arrival of Inspector Albert Spunkleford of Scotland Yard, who bounded across the road toward me, huffing and puffing as he put his sizeable frame through such clearly untypical exertions.
“Ah! Likely!” he wheezed. “Jolly good to see you, old boy!”
“I imagine it would be,” I replied.
“Thank you for responding to my telegram quite so promptly, Likely!” Spunkleford continued. “I dare say you are all fired up and ready for another rip-roaring adventure, eh?”
“Well actually, dear inspector, I was about to go and sample some delicious, hot buns over at that bakery over there,” I said, pointing to the shop on the other side of the street.
“What? But why?” Spunkleford asked, then his face fell when he saw that I was pointing at Mrs. Bapps’ Bakery. “Oh heavens, no, Likely! Can we not have one investigation wherein you do not wind up underneath some poor woman or other?”
“Of course, inspector!” I brightened. “This time I shall make certain that I am on top!”
With that I strode across the street, with Spunkleford grumbling on behind me.
The shop’s bell gave a rather pathetic little tring as I entered Mrs. Bapps’ Bakery – hardly a fanfare befitting the entrance of one as utterly fabulous as I. Nevertheless, the bell seemed to do the trick, and no sooner had we entered the establishment then did Mrs. Bapps herself emerge from a back-room with a cheery, “Good day, gentlemen!”
I took a moment to behold the woman, and found her most pleasing to the eye, and indeed the other eye. She was a well-built, blonde lady, with lovely, smiling green eyes. She also looked rather dirty – not physically, you understand, although her face and apron were covered with flour as would be expected from one in her trade – but she had an air about her that suggested she certainly knew how to butter a gentleman’s baguette, if you follow my meaning.
“So, how can I help you fine gentlemen?” Mrs. Bapps continued as she dried her hands on a towel. “Can I interest you in a nice hot bun, maybe?” she continued, as she turned around and bent over to open up the door of the oven behind her, revealing a rather shapely derriÃ¨re in the process.
“Mmmm,” I said approvingly. “Those buns certainly do look quite, quite appetising!”
“Rather! They smell delicious!” exclaimed Spunkleford, whose thoughts rarely strayed further south than his stomach.
“There you go then, gents!” chirped Mrs. Bapps, as she laid a tray of buns on the counter before her. “Fresh out of the oven!”
Botter and Spunkleford hungrily tucked in to the piping-hot food, while I refrained. I never eat on the job, you know.
“Are you not having any, sir?” Mrs. Bapps enquired.
“Not yet,” I grinned.
“You see, m’dear, I am afraid to say that I have precisely no interest in your baked goods. I think I should instead like to order something rather more…delectable.”
Mrs. Bapps smiled and leant over the counter, which gave me a fantastic view of her considerable cleavage, the sort of cleavage one could lose one’s wallet in, and then possibly one’s hand as well.
“So, sir…what would you like, then?”
“Well…” I began.
- Lord Likely.
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