We all ate slab sponge coloured pink with mulberries collected from the burial grounds.  30p a piece. 20 for smaller miss shapes. Our falling milk teeth cracked thick icing on the days when they baked mostly bread. Care not. Care not. The sponge was dry and rough. still sweet; always sweet. No matter how long rested.

When fresh, I my teeth sank into the warm foam. With wet icing glueing to the roof of my mouth and the back of my teeth. Sponge falling about my tongue, like bonemeal and soil about rake.

My whole family, buried under mulberry. The baker's too. Generation  stacked down. Melting. 

Roots tangle, bone flesh and blood. Sweet meats and entrails. Brains no longer ignoring. lessons provided. I won’t wast your time. Now, always, permanently ignorant.

Sometimes, when we went late after school on Thursdays, the baker would give us extra bits for free. Thursdays in the summer. The cake, finished late the night before, would be betwixt: the icing fleshy and tort; old enough to congeal into roasted flesh. Rested shoulder. 

Sweaty buckle - greasy. gamey. Crumbling, it sticks to the tongue. slithering, filling gullets and stuffing bellies. The sponge, still without roughness, was sweaty, fragrant. Sopping up hunger and no less boredom, yet never able to sate. 

We cared only where it could be found.

There is little concern for the baker's skill or his shop. We cared not for mulberries. Not for their juices. Only rarely for their flavour.

Thursdays we were allowed in the shop. corralled by the counter, 6 of us couldn’t move. Losing count of the pieces; we threw our heads back. Cheeks bulging. Mouths full. 

Crumbs falling from side to side. Everything half finished but fully done. We chirped and squealed for more. jostling for position. The afternoon sun pouring in on our backs. Teachers: nowhere. The sun - through the windows raising temperatures and moist scent. Parents nowhere. The sun, the hot sun. The blinds down, the baker looked on. Wide-eyed,  silenced. Nostrils flared. salivating, lips glistening and swelled; cheeks blushed. He, tossing to mouthes. Speaking rarely to chastise misplaced hands stabilising upon his counter.  The sway, the rough sway. Squeaking plimsoles tangled without breathy pants. Our rough sway was unavoidable when we fought for plenty.