Intermediate Versus Junior Goalie Pads

Back to clown

With the new year came back red nose
freedom of happiness
red nose red nose





and magic of Thursday night resumed
time to forget what we are for nothing more than a mind in a crazy crazy body
bread stored in its panière the crescents on their stalls. Leaving only the state

clown what a pleasure to return the nose, repeat the check-up before the scene
to feel his whole body just now. without neurons that guide. Just the body is there and then forget what a pleasure to come
whisper words of the public picked at random from the here and now
words everyday and become sublimated poems
words of clowns

yes fun Thursday night is back
those few hours when I am no longer the apprentice baker, when there are more orders, more blame, more baguettes and croissants baked too badly rolled
those few hours where nobody asks me to account, where no one judges me
where there is only the benevolent attention of an audience ready to smile
few hours of happiness
stolen moments of happiness

Ststyrofoaml Sail Boats

Celebrations ...

Everyone is on vacation, everybody goes shopping, Christmas markets fragrant mulled wine
Garlands in the streets, garland hearts.

And then there are bakers.
The baker, between excitation into anxiety. Celebrations ... or sales of the year.
The day you've never kneaded rye as the day's papers command invade the walls of the lab, the day where you run from noon on the day when the oven is never empty .
The day the customers are lining up behind the shop 50m, the day we launched 3 more mixers tradition, the day the baskets are hardly fulfilled already empty and the much awaited respite yet shifted.
is the day that everything moves, where nothing stops.

The day when one wants his bed, where it is better not to think about sleeping comrades,
but also a breath of excitement, feel part of a great adventure where each is useful, where everyone is needed. The day the client MUST leave his happy with his rye rye rye
his (the client eat too many oysters, you say you)

The day we head for tens of hours without even report,
where you were going home completely washed

is the 24th.
Then the week is crazy.
(well, where I work is particular: FOUR neighboring bakeries are closed!)
Every day is like Saturday.
Pfouh.

And now we know, the worst happens. The
31.
death.
You say that the neighborhood was concerted.
you do not understand why people do not make their bread at home (yes bin?)
then you immediately regret this thought

you dream a moment in the day when you entrepreneur
you imagine these days of 24 and 31 where the cash drawer does not even have time to close between two clients.
and then you say that Christmas is good, anyway.

Moments of sweet illusions.

Then your boss wakes you up.
It's not over.
patties. You fart
weights.