“I start with the dough we prepared the night before. While the first batch is baking, I weigh out the next one and clear the table. The first customers are usually the same people: a driver, the woman from the shop and a man who buys bread for his mother. I put theirs to one side if they are late.

By midday the room is hot, so we take our tea by the open door while the next batch finishes. Then there are the schoolchildren. They count their coins on the counter and take a long time choosing, even when they buy the same thing every day. Before I leave, I sweep the flour from under the table and check what we need for tomorrow. I usually take home a loaf that has split at the side. It tastes the same.

At that hour the street outside is quiet enough for me to hear somebody pulling up a shutter further along. I know which shop it belongs to without looking. We have our own little sequence of lights coming on. The room takes a while to warm, so I keep my jacket on as I begin. Later I will wonder why I ever wanted another layer, but the first part of the morning belongs to a different temperature.

Before the street wakes

There is a scale on the table with a mark near one corner where a tray once fell against it. I meant to replace it years ago. It still does its job, and I have become used to setting things down at just the right angle. That is how a working room fills up with objects you cannot quite explain keeping. A new person sees a damaged scale. I see the place where my hand goes every morning without having to think.

The work changes with the person beside you. Some people like to talk while they work; others save their words until the first break. A young man who helped me for a summer was always humming, never quite loudly enough for me to recognise the tune. After he left, the room felt strangely quiet. I found myself putting the radio on, though I had complained about it whenever somebody else wanted music. He still comes in sometimes, and asks if I miss the singing.

Customers have their own ways of announcing themselves. One knocks on the open door. Another calls my name before stepping inside. A woman from nearby asks the same question about which loaf has just come out, even when she has watched me carry the tray through. She likes me to point it out. I used to hurry through these exchanges when we were busy. Now I understand that the question is often simply the beginning of a conversation.

The people at the counter

There are days when something goes wrong before breakfast and I spend the next few hours trying to catch up. A delivery is late, a tray is missing, somebody has put the wrong thing on the wrong shelf. Those days usually look perfectly ordinary from the counter. The bread is there, the change is counted out, the customer leaves. Afterwards I sit for a minute and remember that most people are carrying around parts of a day that nobody else can see.

Sometimes a customer asks me which bread I would take home. It is a difficult question, because at work I am always thinking about what needs doing next. At home I notice different things. I cut a piece while somebody is putting the kettle on, or leave it on the table beside whatever is already there. Bread does not need a special occasion. I am glad to make something that can belong to an entirely unremarkable Tuesday.

I have a small list beside the door where we write down what is running low. Everyone adds to it, in handwriting that becomes less clear as the day goes on. Before leaving I read it twice, because a word that makes perfect sense at noon can look mysterious by evening. Then I turn the chairs in, check the room and step outside. The neighbouring shops are closing in a different order from the one in which they opened.”