“Come here, cook! Bogtrotter wishes to tell you how good your chocolate cake is!”
The cook, a tall shrivelled female who looked as though all of her body-juices had been dried out of her long ago in a hot oven,
walked on to the platform wearing a dirty white apron.
Her entrance had clearly been arranged beforehand by the Headmistress. “Now then, Bogtrotter,” the Trunchbull boomed.
“Tell cook what you think of her chocolate cake.” “Very good,” the boy mumbled.
You could see he was now beginning to wonder what all this was leading up to.
The only thing he knew for certain was that the law forbade the Trunchbull to hit him with the riding-crop that she kept smacking against her thigh.
That was some comfort, but not much because the Trunchbull was totally unpredictable. One never knew what she was going to do next.
“There you are, cook,” the Trunchbull cried. “Bogtrotter likes your cake. He adores your cake.”
“Do you have any more of your cake you could give him?” “I do indeed,” the cook said. She seemed to have learnt her lines by heart.
“Then go and get it. And bring a knife to cut it with.” The cook disappeared.
Almost at once she was back again staggering under the weight of an enormous round chocolate cake on a china platter.
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