The cake was fully eighteen inches in diameter and it was covered with dark-brown chocolate icing. “Put it on the table,” the Trunchbull said.
There was a small table centre stage with a chair behind it. The cook placed the cake carefully on the table.
“Sit down, Bogtrotter,” the Trunchbull said. “Sit there.” The boy moved cautiously to the table and sat down.
He stared at the gigantic cake. “There you are, Bogtrotter,” the Trunchbull said,
and once again her voice became soft, persuasive, even gentle. “It's all for you, every bit of it.”
As you enjoyed that slice you had yesterday so very much, I ordered cook to bake you an extra large one all for yourself.”
“Well, thank you,” the boy said, totally bemused. “Thank cook, not me,” the Trunchbull said.
“Thank you, cook,” the boy said. The cook stood there like a shrivelled bootlace, tight-lipped, implacable, disapproving.
She looked as though her mouth was full of lemon juice. “Come on then,” the Trunchbull said.
“Why don't you cut yourself a nice thick slice and try it?”
“What? Now?” the boy said, cautious. He knew there was a catch in this somewhere, but he wasn't sure where.
“Can't I take it home instead?” he asked. “That would be impolite,” the Trunchbull said, with a crafty grin.
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