It got kind of addictive…

As Nonnatus House cook for fifteen years, Mrs. B thought she had seen it all. Cakes hidden in washtubs, entire platefuls of biscuits disappearing; she was used to that sort of nonsense by now.

Throwing down her dishcloth, she muttered, “This is the end of enough. Either it stops this day or I am finished.”

Shoulders back, she announced, “Just what’s  this vile concoction doing in my icebox?”

“Some sort of facial, I should think,” said Jenny.

Mrs. B glared at Trixie.

“It’s not mine!” claimed Trixie.

“Sorry Mrs. B,” came Fred’s voice. “Gotta keep up in the beauty stakes!”