Reasons why, if you see Father Bear at the French market, he's bound to be up to no good

I'd hate you to have run out of my shortened fairy tales for those evenings when you are reading to your children/grandchildren/child you are meant to be responsibly babysitting.

The Three Bears and the Brief Appearance of Goldilocks

The three bears lived in a cottage in the woods.  One morning, they were all eating breakfast as usual, unaware that a blonde girl was peering in at them from outside their window.  (Only the omniscient narrator was aware of this fact.)

            A tense argument was raging because Mother Bear never seemed to get the porridge right.  Father Bear complained that his was too cold, and Baby Bear cried because his was too hot.  Mother Bear was getting flustered.  Hers seemed fine.  Men were SO fussy.  

            The phone rang.  Mother Bear went to answer it.  ‘That’ll be Auntie Freda,’ she said, leaving the kitchen.  

            Father Bear said to Baby Bear, ‘We’ve lost your mother now.  She’ll be hours, I bet.’  (Auntie Freda was going through some kind of gynaecological crisis with her 'tubes' which Mother Bear had explained to him in detail the previous evening, God love her, but which had made him regret having quite so much penne pasta at dinner.)

            Baby Bear threw a sulk, having burnt his tongue and gone off the porridge idea completely.  ‘But I’m hungry,’ he whined.

            ‘I know, son’ said Father Bear, tapping his nose conspiratorially.  ‘But don't worry.  I’ve got a Plan B!’

           Canny old Father Bear had been shopping at the French market the previous day without Mother Bear’s knowledge.  Mother Bear had lost enthusiasm for anything French since Father Bear’s unfortunate lapse with someone called Simone from work, so he hadn't owned up to his purchases.

               Father Bear reached into a top cupboard and, to Baby Bear’s delight, pulled out a packet of six pain au chocolat as well as a couple of fresh, squidgy baguettes.  They warmed these in the microwave (singing loudly during the 'ready' beeps) and then enjoyed them together while Mother Bear was talking to Auntie Freda.

            The little blonde girl, watching them, realised how hungry she was, and she ran home to see if Mother had any pain au chocolat in her cupboard.  She hadn't, in fact, and the blonde girl had to make do with stale Rice Krispies.  It was a bit of a let down, and not a lot of fun, compared with the day she could have had - the breaking and entering into a bears' cottage, a bowl of delicious porridge, the dramatic dismembering of a chair, and a chance to bounce on three different beds before choosing her favourite, like you do in Bed City, but without a twelve year old with spots trying to sell it to you.

'What kind of mother ARE you?' complained Goldilocks bitterly, finding no continental pastries were
available at home.  Judge her not: it is hard to find you have a stupid name and hair the
colour of custard, but no fairy story to star in.