Gingerbread: Book Review



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Ginger. The best hair colour on this planet. The colour of the sun and the colour that drew me into Dinsdale’s world.

But, in hoping for a trip out of the spring and into the summer, instead, I was taken by the hand and rather forcefully taken for a viewing of Baba Yaga’s cooking pot. I can’t say that I was smitten by the view and, having narrowly avoided being simmered and peppered by the old girl, I did a runner into the depths of a dank-dark-freezing-cold forest.

I had the good fortune to come across a pre-built shack and decided to take cover. My new accommodation was far from ideal, as it turned out to also be pre-inhabited, by a cross old man and his grotty grandson.

The pair of them made a good cover for me, both being so skinny from a diet of Jew’s ears and worms that Baba Yaga just wasn’t interested in them. Little did she know that they were providing sanctuary to the plumpest of her escapees.

Settling down on a bed of leaves, I continued with my read. Would there  be a happy ending for all? Would the young boy ever become a skilled enough hunger to catch a hare for his grandad’s supper? Would the poor-old dear, Baba Yaga, find meat for her pot – enough to justify the running costs of all that simmering?

Could I expect a guest appearance from the Gingerbread man?

Only one way to find out ….

Oh, and feel free to join me in my lodgings, but I’m in it for the long haul, so please, please, please bring a couple (perhaps four – mustn’t neglect my hosts) of double-winter-tog sleeping bags, a barrel of warm-mulled wine, and a plentiful supply of high-energy-ginger biscuits, and …. a reading torch?

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, April 2019

‘Biscuit’ image by silivarita on

Published by The Silly-Savvy Salopian

Freelance writer and descendant of the cave dweller and outlaw, Humphrey Kynaston. Banished from Shropshire for my eccentricity, I have made my home in Suffolk. I write poetry, short stories, travel journals, comedy gig reviews and non-fiction articles. My wish is to write my way back into the heart of my birth land. All writing commissions (and free holidays in Shropshire!) considered.

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