It can be quite difficult moving to a new town, particularly if you don’t know many people in the area. When I first moved to the city I quickly realised that because I had so few companions to call upon, I had inadvertently become something of a commuter hermit. I would scuttle from my flat to work and then right back again at the end of the day with very little deviation.
In a bid to break out of this downward spiral, I developed a morning routine that initially made me feel wonderfully metropolitan but soon grew to be a tiresome waste of time. Rather than eating breakfast at home of a weekday morning, I would head to a cafe somewhere near my place of work for a cappuccino and a muffin.
In order to keep this routine spontaneity fresh I changed the cafe I went to every week and after a couple of months settled into a rota after returning to the very first cafe I had visited. After all, there are only so many eateries within walking distance of work.
This comfortable rut had an unforeseen impact on my working week. Because I knew the cafe I would be going to every morning, each week was tinged with its own specific emotional shade depending on whether the prospect of visiting Dave's Cafe and Deli and its ilk would fill me with delight or dread every morning.
I was in the midst of a particularly bad rotation at the Mutt's Nuts Cafe opposite the park near work when the incident occurred. The place was aimed at the dog-walking crowd, a market it had cornered with an efficiency indicative of a Machiavellian mind at work. A mind sorely wasted on the minutia of coffee vending and the preparation of delicious delicacies.
The cafe itself was actually quite pleasant. My weeks frequenting Mutt's Nuts would have been regarded as something of a treat were circumstances different. Unfortunately the fact was that the place was invariably packed with dogs. Panting, whining, slobbering dogs every morning.
I sometimes wish I were allergic to dogs so I could have a valid and indisputable argument ready for people who challenge me on my supposedly irrational hatred of the species. "Even the puppies?" they often say incredulously, pouting and scrunching their faces up in what is presumably meant to be an approximation of a puppy's face. Especially the puppies, I always think to myself.
Dogs are just so painfully stupid. Stupid, needy and heedless of their surroundings. They remind me of those rich, spoiled and handsome people you sometimes come across. People who aren't in and of themselves bad people, but end up being insufferable simply because they've never been in a situation where it really mattered if they were nice to people or not; for one reason or another, people would go out of their way to help them.
The only thing worse than dogs are dog owners. People who will stare moon-eyed at their overgrown rat as it tremblingly pushes out one of its fetid little turds and, instead of being disgusted, will reach eagerly into their pocket for a plastic baggie, all the while congratulating their ridiculously named love-placebo.
I remember looking up from my book one morning (I like to read while I break my fast, I find it aids my digestion) to find a great shambling mutt with its filthy paws up on my table, finishing off my barely touched breakfast muffin. The owner looked up at my cry of distress.
"Oh Marmaduke," she clucked in friendly vexation, "you are a little terror." I decided to ignore the lazy name she'd given her Great Dane (but honestly, she might as well have called it Scooby).
"Marmaduke just ate my breakfast." I observed with pointed politeness. She clucked some more shoving the dog's giant head around with what seemed to me to me a reckless disregard for her own safety.
"What a silly sausage you are. Aren't you? Aren't you? Yes you are, you silly sausage. You say sorry to this nice man." And with that she directed the slobbering brute up onto my lap where it dutifully began to lick my face (presumably for the crumbs from the few bites I had taken of my muffin). They left soon after. If it had been a child and not a dog it would have received a firm scolding and I'd have received a replacement muffin, not to mention considerably less face licking and dog breath. As it was I had to lean heavily on my Elevenses treat to see me through to lunch.
Though I dread the place, I have worked out a system for making my food inaccessible. I take a table by the wall and then slip a surreptitious saucer of coffee under the table. Not only does this keep their mind off my food, but I like to think that it also deals a little justice to those dog owners lacking the decency to prevent their mongrels running around unleashed by hitting their precious pups with the caffeine double-threat of hyperactivity and incontinence.
In any case, on the morning in question I ordered my cappuccino and selected a blueberry muffin that happened to catch my eye. I generally can't resist the look of a blueberry muffin; the way the berry juice always bleeds into the cake, it simply looks the most fun you can pack into a muffin without artificial colours.
I had taken my seat and found my place in my book when I heard a quiet voice floating up from somewhere nearby. I dug my phone out of my pocket and checked to make sure that I hadn’t pocket-dialled anyone but found that it was still safely locked. Shrugging, I returned to my book. When the noise reoccurred, I moved my book aside to look down at the tiny plate where my muffin sat in all its wholesome yellow, brown and deep violet beauty.
I studied it for a moment, not entirely sure exactly what I was looking for and was about to return to my book when I noticed a movement just under the lip of the muffin-top. I pulled away sharply in disgust and, once I had regained my composure, leaned forward carefully to take a look at whatever was causing my baked treat to move. I flinched as the movement came again, accompanied by a small sound, but managed to stand my ground. Baffled, I moved closer and the sound grew ever so slightly more distinct. I edged closer still.
"Gimme the sunshine" it seemed to say.
"What on Earth?" I said peering closely at the muffin.
"Is, uh, is everything alright, sir?" I sat bolt upright and looked at the buck-toothed waitress stood next to me. She was absently fending off the attentions of a playful Golden Retriever. Now, if that had been a child it would have been pulled off the woman with nary a delay. I really don't understand it.
"Uh, hello." I stammered, a little thrown by the situation. After a moment of indecision I decided to confide in her. "The thing is," I said leaning towards her in a needlessly conspiratorial manner, "my muffin seems to be talking to me." She smiled a weak, uncertain smile. The smile of someone hoping for, rather than expecting, a punchline.
"What's it saying?" She hazarded. I remember being oddly charmed by this response.
"That's the strange thing," I replied drawing her further into my confidence (I honestly don't know what was going on in my mind at this point in time), "it seems to be saying 'Give me the sunshine'." She looked at me for a second. I noticed that the badge on her breast pocket said Deborah.
"Would you like me to get you a take-out cup and a bag so you can take your muffin out to the park?" She asked with laudable self-control. I nodded with a thoughtful expression.
"Yes, thank you, that would be lovely, Deborah."
"My name's Alex," Alex corrected me gently, "I'm just filling in for Debs." I made a small pleased noise.
"Is that right?" I said, "Well good for you, Alex. You wouldn't know Deborah was missing. Well done." She looked at me for a moment before thanking me and walking back towards the main counter. I turned my attention back to the muffin. It was still for the moment. I took a sip of coffee and sat back.
Alex returned a short while later with a brown paper bag and a large paper cup. I noticed that she had been thoughtful enough to drop the cup into a heat-guard sleeve and thanked her warmly. She nodded with a smile and turned to go.
"Alex," I called with some urgency. She stopped with an almost imperceptible sigh and turned back to me. "Would you mind terribly putting the muffin in the bag for me?" Her expression darkened ever so slightly and I'm sure I detected some edge to her voice as she asked, "And the coffee?"
"Oh, no," I assured her, "I can take care of that." She nodded and dropped the muffin into the bag with clipped efficiency. I'm sure I heard a quickly muffled squeal of shock and, more tellingly, I do believe I saw a flicker of surprise cross Alex's face. After what may or may not have been a pause she held the bag out towards me.
"Enjoy your muffin. Make sure you give it the sunshine." She remained straight-faced as she said this. I nodded and turned to leave the shop, stepping carefully over an awkward pile of King Charles Spaniels who had managed to twist their leads tightly around each other while their broadsheet-flapping owner sat blissfully unaware of their predicament. Honestly, with the seemingly constant whip-snap-rustling of the reading material, I’m amazed that the man had managed to make any progress through his paper whatsoever.
As I walked out of the shop and into the mid-May morning glow, I could have sworn that I heard the muttering from the bag become more insistent, excited even, as the late-spring sunshine
warmed the brown paper. I even thought I felt a movement from within and shuddered slightly at the thought.
Really, at this point, I should have been turning right and making the five minute journey to my work at a brisk, though far from hurried, pace. However, I had left the cafe a full fifteen minutes ahead of time and, as I mentioned, all this early morning commotion had left me feeling somewhat disoriented. As such, I pressed the button at the pelican crossing and followed the illuminated advice to wait as rush hour traffic pushed past in an impatient line.
The noise and movement from the bag seemed to grow louder and more insistent. I tried to ignore it while a creeping panic blossomed and rigid tension spread through my ram-rod-straight arm to the locked muscles around my shoulder. A bead of sweat grew to a trickle just below my hairline and I started to wonder why I hadn’t just thrown the muffin away. The reason seemed to be a confusing mix of ethical angst, morbid fascination and persistent hunger. Whatever happened from here on out, full satisfaction didn’t seem a likely prospect.
As a grudging and shrilly announced break in traffic appeared, I trotted over the road and through the ornate wrought iron gates into the park. Muscle-memory pulled me toward my lunchtime bench on the far side of the boating lake and, for want of a better idea, I let my feet lead the way. Up the path ahead of me I saw a runner I had come to recognise as regular feature of my journey to work.
His overly lean body had an angular and asymmetric running shape that always gave him the look of an octogenarian health fanatic despite the fact that he couldn’t be much older than 30. He would run with his left forearm held horizontally before him, his elbow shifting forwards and backwards in tiny oval motions, while his right arm pedalled camp circles in front as if clawing the air to pull himself onward. Sometimes I liked to imagine that he was patting the head of a child stood to his right and nudging someone stood to his left in a constant loop. Pat-pat. Nudge-nudge. Pat-pat. Nudge-nudge. Well done you. Hey you, look how well this kid did...
The bench upon which I like to lunch on those occasions when the sun shines is deep enough into the park that any of my co-workers tempted outside by the picnic atmosphere will slump onto a scrap of grass long before they reach me. For additional security, the area is heavily shaded by a small copse of willow trees following the path around the water’s edge. It usually makes for a peacefully dappled experience but, being that it was still early morning, the low sun beamed in under the boughs of the trees and light bounced up off the still water a few metres in front of the bench, bathing the bench in an otherworldly golden glow that chimed oddly well with my generally discombobulated state of mind.
After absently dusting off the bench I sat and placed the bag carefully beside me, making sure that the muffin was resting on its flat base within the bag. Even this caused my skin to crawl as I was sure, almost certainly psychosomatically, that I could feel it squirm as I did. There was possibly even an accompanying giggle. My mind shied away from this possibility.
I was quite certain that I wouldn’t be able to face the prospect of lifting the muffin out of the bag so I made a decision and started to carefully pull a vertical rip through the side of the bag. The sound of the muffin grew louder as I ripped, I think both because it was becoming less and less muffled, and because it was growing excited. I felt slightly sick.
As the rip reached the bottom of the bag I heard, quite clearly now, a high-pitched sigh of delight, “Sunlight!” and with that, it was free. The muffin sat motionless within the remains of the brown paper bag that rose around it like some kind of reverse cape. There was no movement, but the air around the blueberry delicacy seemed to shimmer with an aura, a tangible feeling that something was about to happen.
I watched the muffin closely, my body coiled and ready to fight or take flight, like a soaped-up arachnophobe surveiling an unexpected shower guest. Finally the muffin seemed to wilt slightly and I felt the feather-light breath that accompanied its contented sigh. Finally I saw, with no small amount of revulsion, the pastry peel back across two blueberries, blueberries which swung towards me in a nauseating approximation of eyes. The lip of the muffin started to move again as the little cake tootled a series of noises that sounded like voice exercises before bursting suddenly into song;
"Thank you, thank you, thank you kind one
You picked me out and made me your bun
You heard my call and chose to help out
You heard me call, though I could not shout.
I asked for the sun and you gave me the world
In a land full of oysters, you were my pearl
Though hungry, you spared your breakfast dish
And so I’m delighted to offer a wish
Will it be riches or will it be love?
Will you seek peace, to be the world's dove?
Whatever desire, whatever your whim,
Speak it now and I will not skim...p"
The last word rang like a mistruck note, the final sound spat out with a sense of surprise and mild disappointment (as well as a small crumb that I tried not to think about too much) but the shrill and jaunty song had otherwise held me entranced. Now an odd silence descended between the two of us as its blueberry eyes bored into mine and I could have sworn that it was holding its breath.
It took a few moments for my shock to subside sufficiently to give any serious thought to the concept of a wish. What would I wish for, if I had one wish? I toyed with the idea and ran through a couple of concepts in my head. I became so absorbed in my deliberations that I managed to forget the base insanity of the situation that I found myself in.
Eventually I came to a decision. "Wealth," I said resolutely, "I wish to be ridiculously wealthy for the rest of my life"
The muffin considered me gravely for a moment in silence. I have no idea how it managed to convey any sense of emotion whatsoever: aside from the blueberry eyes and what may or may not have been a mouth moving beneath the lip of its muffin top, it had no other features to speak of; it was simply a common-or-garden muffin. Nonetheless, I felt an odd maturity in its silent consideration. It bordered on humbling in its intensity.
"So shall it be." The muffin intoned eventually, its shrill cartoonish voice jarring harshly against the gravitas of the sentence, "Our deal shall be struck just as soon as you have eaten me."
The muffin's cakey eyelids pulled slowly down as it assumed a martyr-like air of serenity and preparedness. I blinked.
"Wait. Wait, what was that? After I...after I eat you? Is that what you said?" There was a quick almost movement from the cake, which I took to be a sharp nod of confirmation. "Right" I continued, "Right, I'm not going to be able to do that. To eat you, I mean. I think we put paid to that possibility when I started talking to you. If I’ve had a conversation with it, I can’t eat it. I think it’s safe to assume that it would do my digestion absolutely no favours."
"Whatever your objections, sir." The muffin pronounced, "In order for your wish to be fulfilled you will need to consume me, in my entirety." I gagged slightly at this point. "I am ready," the muffin insisted.
"That’s as may be, but it's not really the point." I replied. I looked at the muffin, this muffin that was now looking back at me with a curious expression (again I can't really tell you what about the muffin conveyed this but it was clear as day to me at the time) and considered my wish.
Wealth. Lucre. Bunse. I could have everything I ever dreamed of, never have to work again, and all I had to do to make this a reality was consume an anthropomorphic blueberry muffin with an annoying voice.
I took a deep breath and was reaching out toward the muffin when suddenly, with a mournful and tearing scream, a seagull swooped seemingly out of nowhere and knocked the muffin onto the ground, gouging a large portion out of the top with a sickening spray of crumbs and what I will assume, for sanity's sake, was blueberry sauce. I could hear the muffin's shrill scream painting his terror and terrific pain in broad, heartbreaking sonic strokes. Four more gulls swooped in and joined the blue slaughter.
It was over in a matter of ten, maybe twenty seconds leaving five seagulls stood in front of me, bodies splattered with an inordinate amount of thick blue goop. It was a matter of seconds but watching the awful scene unfold, it felt like minutes, hours, eons. What I saw sickened me, emotionally, physically, and haunts me even to this day.
So, in summary, son, that is how seagulls learned to open crisp packets.
In a bid to break out of this downward spiral, I developed a morning routine that initially made me feel wonderfully metropolitan but soon grew to be a tiresome waste of time. Rather than eating breakfast at home of a weekday morning, I would head to a cafe somewhere near my place of work for a cappuccino and a muffin.
In order to keep this routine spontaneity fresh I changed the cafe I went to every week and after a couple of months settled into a rota after returning to the very first cafe I had visited. After all, there are only so many eateries within walking distance of work.
This comfortable rut had an unforeseen impact on my working week. Because I knew the cafe I would be going to every morning, each week was tinged with its own specific emotional shade depending on whether the prospect of visiting Dave's Cafe and Deli and its ilk would fill me with delight or dread every morning.
I was in the midst of a particularly bad rotation at the Mutt's Nuts Cafe opposite the park near work when the incident occurred. The place was aimed at the dog-walking crowd, a market it had cornered with an efficiency indicative of a Machiavellian mind at work. A mind sorely wasted on the minutia of coffee vending and the preparation of delicious delicacies.
The cafe itself was actually quite pleasant. My weeks frequenting Mutt's Nuts would have been regarded as something of a treat were circumstances different. Unfortunately the fact was that the place was invariably packed with dogs. Panting, whining, slobbering dogs every morning.
I sometimes wish I were allergic to dogs so I could have a valid and indisputable argument ready for people who challenge me on my supposedly irrational hatred of the species. "Even the puppies?" they often say incredulously, pouting and scrunching their faces up in what is presumably meant to be an approximation of a puppy's face. Especially the puppies, I always think to myself.
Dogs are just so painfully stupid. Stupid, needy and heedless of their surroundings. They remind me of those rich, spoiled and handsome people you sometimes come across. People who aren't in and of themselves bad people, but end up being insufferable simply because they've never been in a situation where it really mattered if they were nice to people or not; for one reason or another, people would go out of their way to help them.
The only thing worse than dogs are dog owners. People who will stare moon-eyed at their overgrown rat as it tremblingly pushes out one of its fetid little turds and, instead of being disgusted, will reach eagerly into their pocket for a plastic baggie, all the while congratulating their ridiculously named love-placebo.
I remember looking up from my book one morning (I like to read while I break my fast, I find it aids my digestion) to find a great shambling mutt with its filthy paws up on my table, finishing off my barely touched breakfast muffin. The owner looked up at my cry of distress.
"Oh Marmaduke," she clucked in friendly vexation, "you are a little terror." I decided to ignore the lazy name she'd given her Great Dane (but honestly, she might as well have called it Scooby).
"Marmaduke just ate my breakfast." I observed with pointed politeness. She clucked some more shoving the dog's giant head around with what seemed to me to me a reckless disregard for her own safety.
"What a silly sausage you are. Aren't you? Aren't you? Yes you are, you silly sausage. You say sorry to this nice man." And with that she directed the slobbering brute up onto my lap where it dutifully began to lick my face (presumably for the crumbs from the few bites I had taken of my muffin). They left soon after. If it had been a child and not a dog it would have received a firm scolding and I'd have received a replacement muffin, not to mention considerably less face licking and dog breath. As it was I had to lean heavily on my Elevenses treat to see me through to lunch.
Though I dread the place, I have worked out a system for making my food inaccessible. I take a table by the wall and then slip a surreptitious saucer of coffee under the table. Not only does this keep their mind off my food, but I like to think that it also deals a little justice to those dog owners lacking the decency to prevent their mongrels running around unleashed by hitting their precious pups with the caffeine double-threat of hyperactivity and incontinence.
In any case, on the morning in question I ordered my cappuccino and selected a blueberry muffin that happened to catch my eye. I generally can't resist the look of a blueberry muffin; the way the berry juice always bleeds into the cake, it simply looks the most fun you can pack into a muffin without artificial colours.
I had taken my seat and found my place in my book when I heard a quiet voice floating up from somewhere nearby. I dug my phone out of my pocket and checked to make sure that I hadn’t pocket-dialled anyone but found that it was still safely locked. Shrugging, I returned to my book. When the noise reoccurred, I moved my book aside to look down at the tiny plate where my muffin sat in all its wholesome yellow, brown and deep violet beauty.
I studied it for a moment, not entirely sure exactly what I was looking for and was about to return to my book when I noticed a movement just under the lip of the muffin-top. I pulled away sharply in disgust and, once I had regained my composure, leaned forward carefully to take a look at whatever was causing my baked treat to move. I flinched as the movement came again, accompanied by a small sound, but managed to stand my ground. Baffled, I moved closer and the sound grew ever so slightly more distinct. I edged closer still.
"Gimme the sunshine" it seemed to say.
"What on Earth?" I said peering closely at the muffin.
"Is, uh, is everything alright, sir?" I sat bolt upright and looked at the buck-toothed waitress stood next to me. She was absently fending off the attentions of a playful Golden Retriever. Now, if that had been a child it would have been pulled off the woman with nary a delay. I really don't understand it.
"Uh, hello." I stammered, a little thrown by the situation. After a moment of indecision I decided to confide in her. "The thing is," I said leaning towards her in a needlessly conspiratorial manner, "my muffin seems to be talking to me." She smiled a weak, uncertain smile. The smile of someone hoping for, rather than expecting, a punchline.
"What's it saying?" She hazarded. I remember being oddly charmed by this response.
"That's the strange thing," I replied drawing her further into my confidence (I honestly don't know what was going on in my mind at this point in time), "it seems to be saying 'Give me the sunshine'." She looked at me for a second. I noticed that the badge on her breast pocket said Deborah.
"Would you like me to get you a take-out cup and a bag so you can take your muffin out to the park?" She asked with laudable self-control. I nodded with a thoughtful expression.
"Yes, thank you, that would be lovely, Deborah."
"My name's Alex," Alex corrected me gently, "I'm just filling in for Debs." I made a small pleased noise.
"Is that right?" I said, "Well good for you, Alex. You wouldn't know Deborah was missing. Well done." She looked at me for a moment before thanking me and walking back towards the main counter. I turned my attention back to the muffin. It was still for the moment. I took a sip of coffee and sat back.
Alex returned a short while later with a brown paper bag and a large paper cup. I noticed that she had been thoughtful enough to drop the cup into a heat-guard sleeve and thanked her warmly. She nodded with a smile and turned to go.
"Alex," I called with some urgency. She stopped with an almost imperceptible sigh and turned back to me. "Would you mind terribly putting the muffin in the bag for me?" Her expression darkened ever so slightly and I'm sure I detected some edge to her voice as she asked, "And the coffee?"
"Oh, no," I assured her, "I can take care of that." She nodded and dropped the muffin into the bag with clipped efficiency. I'm sure I heard a quickly muffled squeal of shock and, more tellingly, I do believe I saw a flicker of surprise cross Alex's face. After what may or may not have been a pause she held the bag out towards me.
"Enjoy your muffin. Make sure you give it the sunshine." She remained straight-faced as she said this. I nodded and turned to leave the shop, stepping carefully over an awkward pile of King Charles Spaniels who had managed to twist their leads tightly around each other while their broadsheet-flapping owner sat blissfully unaware of their predicament. Honestly, with the seemingly constant whip-snap-rustling of the reading material, I’m amazed that the man had managed to make any progress through his paper whatsoever.
As I walked out of the shop and into the mid-May morning glow, I could have sworn that I heard the muttering from the bag become more insistent, excited even, as the late-spring sunshine
warmed the brown paper. I even thought I felt a movement from within and shuddered slightly at the thought.
Really, at this point, I should have been turning right and making the five minute journey to my work at a brisk, though far from hurried, pace. However, I had left the cafe a full fifteen minutes ahead of time and, as I mentioned, all this early morning commotion had left me feeling somewhat disoriented. As such, I pressed the button at the pelican crossing and followed the illuminated advice to wait as rush hour traffic pushed past in an impatient line.
The noise and movement from the bag seemed to grow louder and more insistent. I tried to ignore it while a creeping panic blossomed and rigid tension spread through my ram-rod-straight arm to the locked muscles around my shoulder. A bead of sweat grew to a trickle just below my hairline and I started to wonder why I hadn’t just thrown the muffin away. The reason seemed to be a confusing mix of ethical angst, morbid fascination and persistent hunger. Whatever happened from here on out, full satisfaction didn’t seem a likely prospect.
As a grudging and shrilly announced break in traffic appeared, I trotted over the road and through the ornate wrought iron gates into the park. Muscle-memory pulled me toward my lunchtime bench on the far side of the boating lake and, for want of a better idea, I let my feet lead the way. Up the path ahead of me I saw a runner I had come to recognise as regular feature of my journey to work.
His overly lean body had an angular and asymmetric running shape that always gave him the look of an octogenarian health fanatic despite the fact that he couldn’t be much older than 30. He would run with his left forearm held horizontally before him, his elbow shifting forwards and backwards in tiny oval motions, while his right arm pedalled camp circles in front as if clawing the air to pull himself onward. Sometimes I liked to imagine that he was patting the head of a child stood to his right and nudging someone stood to his left in a constant loop. Pat-pat. Nudge-nudge. Pat-pat. Nudge-nudge. Well done you. Hey you, look how well this kid did...
The bench upon which I like to lunch on those occasions when the sun shines is deep enough into the park that any of my co-workers tempted outside by the picnic atmosphere will slump onto a scrap of grass long before they reach me. For additional security, the area is heavily shaded by a small copse of willow trees following the path around the water’s edge. It usually makes for a peacefully dappled experience but, being that it was still early morning, the low sun beamed in under the boughs of the trees and light bounced up off the still water a few metres in front of the bench, bathing the bench in an otherworldly golden glow that chimed oddly well with my generally discombobulated state of mind.
After absently dusting off the bench I sat and placed the bag carefully beside me, making sure that the muffin was resting on its flat base within the bag. Even this caused my skin to crawl as I was sure, almost certainly psychosomatically, that I could feel it squirm as I did. There was possibly even an accompanying giggle. My mind shied away from this possibility.
I was quite certain that I wouldn’t be able to face the prospect of lifting the muffin out of the bag so I made a decision and started to carefully pull a vertical rip through the side of the bag. The sound of the muffin grew louder as I ripped, I think both because it was becoming less and less muffled, and because it was growing excited. I felt slightly sick.
As the rip reached the bottom of the bag I heard, quite clearly now, a high-pitched sigh of delight, “Sunlight!” and with that, it was free. The muffin sat motionless within the remains of the brown paper bag that rose around it like some kind of reverse cape. There was no movement, but the air around the blueberry delicacy seemed to shimmer with an aura, a tangible feeling that something was about to happen.
I watched the muffin closely, my body coiled and ready to fight or take flight, like a soaped-up arachnophobe surveiling an unexpected shower guest. Finally the muffin seemed to wilt slightly and I felt the feather-light breath that accompanied its contented sigh. Finally I saw, with no small amount of revulsion, the pastry peel back across two blueberries, blueberries which swung towards me in a nauseating approximation of eyes. The lip of the muffin started to move again as the little cake tootled a series of noises that sounded like voice exercises before bursting suddenly into song;
"Thank you, thank you, thank you kind one
You picked me out and made me your bun
You heard my call and chose to help out
You heard me call, though I could not shout.
I asked for the sun and you gave me the world
In a land full of oysters, you were my pearl
Though hungry, you spared your breakfast dish
And so I’m delighted to offer a wish
Will it be riches or will it be love?
Will you seek peace, to be the world's dove?
Whatever desire, whatever your whim,
Speak it now and I will not skim...p"
The last word rang like a mistruck note, the final sound spat out with a sense of surprise and mild disappointment (as well as a small crumb that I tried not to think about too much) but the shrill and jaunty song had otherwise held me entranced. Now an odd silence descended between the two of us as its blueberry eyes bored into mine and I could have sworn that it was holding its breath.
It took a few moments for my shock to subside sufficiently to give any serious thought to the concept of a wish. What would I wish for, if I had one wish? I toyed with the idea and ran through a couple of concepts in my head. I became so absorbed in my deliberations that I managed to forget the base insanity of the situation that I found myself in.
Eventually I came to a decision. "Wealth," I said resolutely, "I wish to be ridiculously wealthy for the rest of my life"
The muffin considered me gravely for a moment in silence. I have no idea how it managed to convey any sense of emotion whatsoever: aside from the blueberry eyes and what may or may not have been a mouth moving beneath the lip of its muffin top, it had no other features to speak of; it was simply a common-or-garden muffin. Nonetheless, I felt an odd maturity in its silent consideration. It bordered on humbling in its intensity.
"So shall it be." The muffin intoned eventually, its shrill cartoonish voice jarring harshly against the gravitas of the sentence, "Our deal shall be struck just as soon as you have eaten me."
The muffin's cakey eyelids pulled slowly down as it assumed a martyr-like air of serenity and preparedness. I blinked.
"Wait. Wait, what was that? After I...after I eat you? Is that what you said?" There was a quick almost movement from the cake, which I took to be a sharp nod of confirmation. "Right" I continued, "Right, I'm not going to be able to do that. To eat you, I mean. I think we put paid to that possibility when I started talking to you. If I’ve had a conversation with it, I can’t eat it. I think it’s safe to assume that it would do my digestion absolutely no favours."
"Whatever your objections, sir." The muffin pronounced, "In order for your wish to be fulfilled you will need to consume me, in my entirety." I gagged slightly at this point. "I am ready," the muffin insisted.
"That’s as may be, but it's not really the point." I replied. I looked at the muffin, this muffin that was now looking back at me with a curious expression (again I can't really tell you what about the muffin conveyed this but it was clear as day to me at the time) and considered my wish.
Wealth. Lucre. Bunse. I could have everything I ever dreamed of, never have to work again, and all I had to do to make this a reality was consume an anthropomorphic blueberry muffin with an annoying voice.
I took a deep breath and was reaching out toward the muffin when suddenly, with a mournful and tearing scream, a seagull swooped seemingly out of nowhere and knocked the muffin onto the ground, gouging a large portion out of the top with a sickening spray of crumbs and what I will assume, for sanity's sake, was blueberry sauce. I could hear the muffin's shrill scream painting his terror and terrific pain in broad, heartbreaking sonic strokes. Four more gulls swooped in and joined the blue slaughter.
It was over in a matter of ten, maybe twenty seconds leaving five seagulls stood in front of me, bodies splattered with an inordinate amount of thick blue goop. It was a matter of seconds but watching the awful scene unfold, it felt like minutes, hours, eons. What I saw sickened me, emotionally, physically, and haunts me even to this day.
So, in summary, son, that is how seagulls learned to open crisp packets.
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