Set of black tribal ornament designs

The ovens were already roaring when I let myself in at half three, and on the steel table Mr Okafor had left a sheet of old stencil card with a note: Use these for the Sunday cobs, not the black dye, it stains. Eight patterns, cut by hand years ago, all solid shapes with fine gaps between them that catch the flour and make you curse. I've been at it since, perched on an upturned crate with a craft knife and the radio turned down low.

The feathers are the trouble. Each one tapers to a point that snaps if you press too hard, and the scrolling band has a row of tiny dots that keep disappearing into the dough. The round one, a rose of petals inside petals, I've managed twice. The third time I tore it straight through the middle and laughed out loud in the empty shop, which startled the cat out of the flour sacks.

Just before six Mrs Lindqvist came in for her usual rye. She stood at the counter a long while looking at the tray of cobs with their dark leaf shapes pressed into the crust. She said her husband used to draw things like that in the margins of his letters, feathers and little knots, and she bought the whole tray, which she never does. I didn't tell her the card was older than either of us.

Now the sun is coming up grey over the car park, the window is full of loaves with feathers pressed into their tops, and I think you'd like it here. Come in the spring. I'll save you the crate.