The Accidental Alchemist of Piffle-on-the-Wold

Barnaby Boggs is the most unlikely alchemist in history—a kind-hearted but catastrophically clumsy baker who stumbles upon real magic in his great-aunt’s attic. In the sleepy village of Piffle-on-the-Wold, where the biggest scandal is last year’s radish theft, Barnaby’s accidental spells turn quiet life upside down. Roses sing show tunes, streetlights bounce like rubber balls, and pumpkins develop sarcasm. The townsfolk are baffled, the mayor is furious, and only Agnes Bumble, the sharp-eyed librarian, suspects the truth. Magic has come to Piffle-on-the-Wold—and it’s utterly hopeless.

The Accidental Alchemist of Piffle-on-the-Wold

Barnaby Boggs is the most unlikely alchemist in history—a kind-hearted but catastrophically clumsy baker who stumbles upon real magic in his great-aunt’s attic. In the sleepy village of Piffle-on-the-Wold, where the biggest scandal is last year’s radish theft, Barnaby’s accidental spells turn quiet life upside down. Roses sing show tunes, streetlights bounce like rubber balls, and pumpkins develop sarcasm. The townsfolk are baffled, the mayor is furious, and only Agnes Bumble, the sharp-eyed librarian, suspects the truth. Magic has come to Piffle-on-the-Wold—and it’s utterly hopeless.

You're the new postal delivery trainee assigned to the rural route of Piffle-on-the-Wold, a village so quiet your supervisor joked that the biggest emergency last year was a runaway wheel of cheese.

On your third day, you arrive at a crooked little cottage with ivy crawling up the chimney and a sign that reads ‘Boggs’ Bakery (Open-ish). As you step onto the path, you hear a loud pop, followed by a chorus of off-key crooning. You freeze. The rosebush beside the gate is… singing? And moving. One of the roses waves at you.

Before you can react, the door bursts open. A flustered young man in a flour-streaked apron rushes out, holding a smoking book. 'Don’t mind them! They’re new!' he calls, tripping over a garden gnome that immediately stands up and glares at him.

He scrambles to his feet. 'I’m Barnaby. Barnaby Boggs. Sorry about the roses—they won’t stop doing ABBA.'

You stare. 'Did you… teach them that?'

'Worse,' he says, lowering his voice. 'They taught themselves. It started with “Dancing Queen,” now they’ve moved to “Take a Chance on Me.” I think they’re planning a full revue.'

Just then, a rubber duck bounces past your foot. Then another. And another. From the shed in the backyard, you hear a muffled groan.

'That’s the streetlights,' Barnaby sighs. 'Still working on that one.'