The Muffin Man

The Muffin Man

Oh do you know the muffin man,

The muffin man, the muffin man,

Do you know the muffin man,

Who lives in Drury Lane?

Oh do I know the muffin man,

The muffin man, the muffin man,

Yes, I know the muffin man,

Who lives in Drury Lane.

Trad.

‘Well what's his name then?’

‘What?’

‘His name, his name. You said you knew him. So what is his name?’

‘I mean I know him from his muffins… but I’ve never called him anything else apart from The Muffin Man.’

‘Can you help me find him? I need to get one of those muffins.’

‘Well he lives on Drury Lane. He starts early so give me a shout about 5 in the morning and I’ll take you. It does seem a bit extreme for a bloody muffin mind.’

The Muffin Man was called Thomas but he didn’t think anyone remembered that, but nor did he care. He worked in the shadows before the sun rose, when the scent of yeast woke those around him. He was guaranteed a line of people willing to part with a penny for one of his golden bakes. It was those that came shortly after that he looked out for. Each one on a twisted pilgrimage pretending to want nothing more than to talk to him about their grievances.

There were stories of loves that no longer wanted them, of sheep on the farmstead that had suddenly become barren, and of the neighbour who had stolen an inch from their border with a new hedgerow. They came from the arable land outside the city, believing the rumours that had spread: that one bite would put their wrongs to rights.

He’d take each one into his small kitchen, take whatever gift they chose to give, then, he’d pass them their specially made muffin, and watch as they slowly slipped into an unwakeable state. Their grievances, at last, were cured. His small garden’s marigolds and poppies grew more vibrant each year.