Once upon a dresser there sat a tiny town, its tartan streets lined with toys and trinkets in which the tiny townsfolk toiled.

Puffpot Parlor was one such place, where Poodlepuff, the Petit Parisian Pastry chef, had been panicking over pastries since the first light of the lamp.

'Sacré bleu, mon petit Yeti,' Poodlepuff sighed to his abominably adorable assistant.

Poodleyeti played a long, sad note on his accordion.

'Iz a disasteur.' Poodle shook his head and tossed a three-tiered tart over his shoulder.

Too small, too chocolatey, too big, too soft, too gooey, too stale, too eggy, or just plain bread. These were the failings of our chef. To others, his mistakes would be minimal, but to a love-struck manpoodle, they simply would not do.

'Iz always a disasteur. I am not good enough for ma chérie!' Poodlepuff slumped into some frosting on his bench top. 'Pots and Pans, Yeti! I 'ave Butter-cream on my buttons.'

Poodleyeti paused a sympathetic tune to flick the frosting off with a finger. With delight, and so not to waste it, he sampled the tasty treat.

'L'amore is a hard business, Yeti. Per'aps I should just ask Frou-Ca-Choo for a stew.'

Poodleyeti's song stopped with a sour note.

'A joke, mon Yeti. It would not be a celebration without cake, and they say from here to the closet, no-one can make cake like Monsieur Poodalpahf!'

'Ouaf, Ouaf!' agreed Yeti with yap.

The darling placed down his accordion and daintily tip-toed to the pantry.

Meanwhile Poodlepuff scrubbed his surfaces and cleaned his crockery, then pulled up his sleeves with no shortage of pluck.

'Zis iz it, Yeti. Zis time it will be parfait,' he declared. 'Or per'aps an eclair. Or a gateau? Oh, I do not know.'

The yeti left the flour on the floor and retrieved his accordion to play a quick high, then long low note; a sigh to our Yeti composer.

Poodlepuff fretted over filo and cried over crumbs. Then, just as his creation looked to outshine all others, a surprise from his doors sent it tumbling with a terrible splat.

The plate it had sat on rolled to a stop at the ten socks of the five Frous.

'Ooh là là...' Poodlepuff's heart sunk like a soufflé.'

'You're late, Mister Puff,' said Frou-Frou with a disdainful frown. 'Your dessert was due for delivery on the first squawk of the Dicky-bird! But since then whole seconds have passed!'

'I 'ave been 'ere since three squawks preparing Priscilla's pastries!' said Poodlepuff.

Poodleyeti set the scene with a solemn song.

'Though he is surely polishing his chin at this hour, we will have to trouble Sugarcube to bake Buscuits for us because of this,' huffed Frou Frou without forgiveness.

'Please, Monsiuer Frou Frou,' Poodle plead and pulled at the points of Frou Frou's vest. 'You 'ave to let me try one time more. I will even let you lick ze mixing bowl.'

Frou Frou gasped a small gasp, an extra pair of pink spots painting his cheeks. But with a shake of his head, he shook them away. 'If you started that early, it should have been finished by now.' Frou Frou turned on his heel, and without further ado, he flounced out the door.

Frou-Ba-Lou and Frou-Sha-Boo tutted their tongues as they turned too.

Two Frous stayed. The first started towards a sponge-cloth while the other pounced into the pastry pile.

Frou-Frou returned with a stamp of his foot and snapped, 'don't try to assist, Frou-Nou, and Frou-Ca-Choo, they're long past five seconds on the floor!'

And that was that.