The church bell tower rang eight; its polished bell glinting in the sun, despite the mist. Inside, the Women’s Institute prettiest village subcommittee straightened china cups. Mrs Waverly – the chairwoman – slapped Mrs Sharpe’s hand away from the cake box, as the judges filed in.
Following a thorough inspection, it was time for the final winning touch – a novelty cake of the village. The judges were bemused, then shocked. Something was awry. Mrs Waverly’s eyes fell downward upon a large, pink member standing to attention from two mounds flecked with black icing.
Elsewhere, another box was opened. Debbie doubted her bridesmaid duties again – the hen party would be a disaster.