I’m lucky the farmers’ market rotates through the towns and villages near me, so when I find myself suddenly, inexplicably out of flour – I’m sure there’d been another sack last time I checked the store room – I can make the trip, rather than try some unappetising alternatives for the next week.
I’m also sure there was a shop in my nearest town that could sell me something, or at least bread for the interim. But I have my preferences, and the village Miller Jones would have his wagon at today wasn’t too inconvenient if I called in a favour from the Kelpie.
I took my time browsing, this wasn’t a village I normally spent time in but it was a pretty one, well-loved and well-tended by its inhabitants.
They all knew who I was, of course, I am fairly distinctive, and I smiled regally at their stares and whispers, then ignored them as I chatted, bantered and haggled with the various stall-holders, all of whom knew me well.
Yes, I know all I really needed was flour but I was making the trip, and you always notice the things you should have topped up after you get back from buying supplies. And besides, I was in the mood for some fancy baking when I got home, and that meant extra ingredients.
The DNA of Stories 