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The bleary eyed baker

Up early as I am wont to do on these light summer mornings. 05.35 and I hear what seems to be a lot of traffic on the road outside. Early shift workers. I wonder what the birds think of the traffic noise.

The oven has been switched on, preheating to gas mark 7. The multigrain sourdough, proving overnight in a bread tin in the fridge, is ready to go in. Another hot summer’s day lies before us.

The garden is still and through the open doors of the conservatory the dawn chorus has abated to an every day chatter. I need to learn avianspeak. Moving out to the patio I’ve just spent 10 minutes playing various birdsong on the laptop but still can’t identify my neighbours. I need to call on an expert.

Back inside the oven temperature has been reduced slightly for the second part of the bake. Loaf looks good. The resurgence of my breadmaking efforts during lockdown has given rise to contemplation, if you pardon the pun. It is a huge contrast to the full on life I was leading before coronavirus hit the street.

When I was a student a baker named Ray used to come into the Globe pub just after lunchtime. He had been up very early and had now finished for the day so would reward himself with a couple of pints. No different to anyone else hitting early doors after a day in the office. You might ask what I was doing in the pub after lunchtime? Hey…
bread sliced

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