13May2025 Diary
I stood before the weatherworn door of The Cosy Corner on the edge of Eastfield, a modest suburb of Leeds. The painted sign was crooked; the y in Cosy barely clung to the wood. A few drooping lilac bushes, a rusted rubbish bin and a pair of pigeons basking in the autumn sun kept me company.
Well, here we go, fresh start, I muttered, slipping the key into the lock.
The smell that greeted me was a mix of damp plaster, stale flour and the faint perfume of old spices. I sneezed, cracked the windows, breathed in the chill, then rolled up my sleeves and set to work.
Are you out of your mind? shouted my old friend Lucy on the phone. You bought a café? In this part of town? Did the layoff finally get to you?
Better to bake rolls than count someone elses wages, I sighed, wiping the tables. Besides, Ive always wanted this. Remember how Gran used to bake?
I do. Dreams are one thing, but this shed is another, she replied.
Its not a shed. Its my bakery.
I christened it Mandarin Bread because my Gran always added a sprinkling of grated mandarin zest to her cinnamon rolls. In winter the whole house would smell of citrus and fresh dough, and I wanted that warmth back.
The first week passed with no customers. The shop sat on the very fringe of the estate, where only those who knew the shortcut lanes ever ventured. I rose at five, mixed the dough, baked, washed up, and experimented with recipes. The aromas of cinnamon, vanilla and freshly brewed tea mingled in the air. I placed a bowl of mandarins on the sill and stuck a handwritten sign on the window: Pop in you wont regret it.
Gran, please help me, I whispered to the empty room as I laid out a fresh batch of buttery snails.
Just then, as if on cue, my neighbour Mrs. Whitaker from the house next door popped in.
Are those your rolls? I was walking by and caught the smell. Let me have a bite, she said.
I handed her a piece; she squinted, chewed, and nodded approvingly.
Delicious. Real proper. Tomorrow Ill bring the ladies from the community hall for a natter. You keep the tea ready.
The next day three elderly ladies arrived, each with a bundle of stories. A week later a trio of university students stopped by, then a courier, then a mother with a pram. Word spread slowly but steadily through the neighbourhood.
I gave the shop a new sign: Mandarin Bakery. James, one of the students, offered to help with the design.
Are you a designer? I asked.
Not yet. Im studying. But your buns are divine. Id love to make the sign look as good as they taste.
For the first time in ages I felt I mattered to someone. That evening James introduced his friend Claire, a photographer, saying, Well get your social media up and running.
I nearly broke down.
Good afternoon, croaked a familiar, trembling voice at the door. Sam
I turned. There stood my exhusband, Luke. The same bloke whod vanished a year ago, saying he needed time to think, and had taken a job in the same department.
What are you doing here? I asked, dry as toast.
I heard you opened a café. Thought Id have a look, he said.
Im looking. Youre welcome to leave, I replied.
He smirked. You once told me I was boring. Now youre the one whos bored, arent you?
He leaned in. Listen, were not officially divorced yet, so everything you bought is still joint property.
Youre serious?
I dont want a fight. How about we strike a deal? Ill help with repairs for a small share
I stood silent, then pulled off my apron, walked to the door and flung it wide.
Luke, step out. I dont want to see you again.
He took a step forward, but Mrs. Whitaker appeared with a couple of her friends.
Whos this mischief-maker? Off you go, love. This is womens domain, she chided.
Luke muttered something and shuffled away.
Who was that? asked one of the ladies.
My exhusband. Came for a slice of the pie, Mrs. Whitaker chuckled, snatching another roll from the tray.
My mother called later. Sam, whats all this? Luke rang me. He said you shouted at him.
Mom, hes here demanding a share of the bakery. Is that normal?
Hes practically my soninlaw. Maybe youll get back together. Youre not getting any younger
I built this place from scratch. Im happy. Cant you be glad for me?
I worry about you. The areas rough, the divorce, the savingsnothing to write home about. This isnt a life.
Its my life, Mum, and I chose it.
Fine, if you burn it down, dont call.
I hung up, stared at an empty mug, and heard Claires voice at the door.
May I come in? We just finished the photoshoot Are you crying?
I brushed away a tear. No, just remembering what Gran used to say: if the dough sticks, you have to be patient. Its not ready yet.
Youre strong, Sam. Weve got your back, Claire said, hugging me, then handed me my phone. Lookour first post is up. Already a hundred followers.
Spring brought lines of people waiting for the mandarin buns, stretching round the corner. New items appeared: poppyseed rolls, cottagecheese twists, apple strudels. The bakery breathed.
One evening a gentleman in a coat and a modest bouquet knocked.
May I? he asked. Im the father of Claire. Shes moved to Manchester, but she tells me everything. Im a retired baker, now on a pension with nothing to do. Could I help?
I nodded.
From then on we rose the dough together each morning. He told stories, I listened and learned. Occasionally newcomers stopped bysomeone looking for a bite, someone seeking refuge from the world.
Sam, hello, Lucys voice crackled later on the phone. I keep thinking maybe I should quit accounting and join you?
You still love buns?
More than words. Will you take me on?
I looked around the freshly painted shop, tables occupied, the scent of mandarins filling the air, a folder of expansion plans on the counter.
I will. But you buy your own apron, I replied, laughing.
Outside a gentle spring rain pattered against the windows. The bakery lived, people came and stayed. For the first time I didnt fear the future, because I finally had something real.
The alarm went off before sunrise. The tram rumbled past, the rain drummed on the sill. The café awoke with me: a socket clicked, the green light on the espresso machine flickered, the old fridge grumbled awake.
Seven months have passed since opening day, and Im still amazed at how a dream can become flesh and flour.
Downstairs, Mr. WhitakerClaires dadwas already at work, feeding the starter, checking the proof, conjuring new recipes. I slipped barefoot onto the floor.
Morning, chief! he called, not looking up from the dough.
Morning, wizard. What
