The Rest Of My Loaf

This is another false Monday. It’s the day after a Bank Holiday. A Holiday. The Whit week. A Holy day. And I’m getting ready to go to work. All cannot be good in the Kingdom of the above.

So, I turn this morning to the sermon on the mount. This little known sermon was given by a young boy as he prepared to set about his weekly downward and upward adventure in search of bread.

Blessed are the bread makers.

Saturdays saw me tasked with running the mile downhill from my council home to the bakers. The baker was responsible for some extremely good bread. When almost all bread was uniformly white and sliced and tasted of nothing, this baker’s bread was heaven.

Still warm on purchase, it was my job to get it home, all in one piece. The smell of this finely turned out tempation was enough to turn any head, but being the honest lad, that I then was, meant that the loaf would be delivered still warm and untouched to the home which I shared with my family.

I’m standing there now atop of the mountain (that’s what they called our hill) and looking across the industrial landscape of 1970s Yorkshire, and the sun is creeping out.

There is no room for smog today, no room for rain, and no room for the factory and mill whistles that will later try to drag me into obedience. There is just a big summer sun coming up.

Today will be the first day of the rest of my loaf.

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