Mr Cakebread's Writings

        For almost a single week, the house was a place of peace and private coexistence. The housemates therein greeted each other with nonthreatening mumbles as they entered rooms, passing by those uncomfortably narrow corridors in their morning routines. Plates were frisbee'd less violently from the drying board to their cupboards in the early hours of the morning, the borders between territorial fridgespace were duly respected and no drunken wanderer helped himself to another's unsupervised perishables. But this civility, like the lifespan of those fractured, poorly washed plates would dryup in the grey, cloud-choked sunrise of the following morning.           He sulked and stirred in his sleep. "My porridge oats", he grumbled. "It was definitely them, I'm sure of it". The paranoia of his resources being exploited by others, beyond his control, constantly haunted him.  They must have been eating it, together, in a big ...

          When grasping for the remaining teabags in the depths of my emptying box of Lidl's own-brand earl grey this morning, I couldn't help but get carried away in a spiral of thoughts of recent times I had quite defiantly defended my purchases of shop-brand teabags to zealots of the known brands. The arduous task of recovering the teabags from behind a cityscape of mug towers and rival hot-drinks choices gave me much time to think. The assailants, who are admittedly my friends and family, justified their brand loyalties with faith-based anecdotes like: 'at least it's real tea leaves in my tea bags!', or the more diplomatic: 'I'd just rather spend a bit more and get the proper thing...'. None of this would trouble me, were it not for the fact that so often, in the many involuntary discussions on society and the world order I am engaged in, I am employed as the defender of capitalism amidst their vague and incoherent socialist claims.     ...