The Immortal Baker Crossword

I woke before the sun rose, like I always did. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and thought of the long day ahead. The streets were empty, and the air held the chill of night. The village slept, but not me. I had work to do. The fire in the oven warmed my face as I prepared the dough for the day's bread.

They call me the immortal baker. I had seen many lifetimes and witnessed many events. I had lived in the shadows, my hands always covered in flour. I had lived through revolutions and seen kingdoms fall, but I kept to my work, feeding people, shaping history one loaf at a time. Bread became more than sustenance; it was a symbol of life and prosperity. I honed my skills, and soon my bread was sought after by priests and nobility. I learned then that bread could be both a gift and a powerful tool.

I was in Egypt when the first leavened bread was born. I remember the first time I mixed water with flour and watched as the yeast came to life. It was in Egypt, thousands of years ago, and I had never seen anything quite like it. I was a simple man then, learning my craft, unaware that my life would stretch on forever. But bread, you see, it holds secrets. I watched as the dough bubbled and rose, the smell of yeast filling the air. That day, something changed. I knew I had a purpose – to bring this gift to the world.

As the years turned to centuries, I travelled to Rome, where I saw the rise of an empire built on the promise of panem et circenses. In Rome, I saw emperors rise and fall as they tried to control the masses with bread and circuses. I worked in the heart of the empire, providing sustenance to the masses. My bread was well-known, and I served it freely during the games. Even the emperors tasted my loaves, and I realized that with bread, I could wield power. To offer bread was to offer comfort, to soothe the discontent of a hungry people. I fed the plebeians, their hands outstretched, hunger in their eyes. I understood the power of bread then, the lifeline it provided to the people. I worked day and night, my hands raw, my back aching, but it gave me a sense of purpose.

I crossed the seas to the shores of England, and when I arrived in medieval England in 1266, I found a new challenge. I stood before King Henry III, my head bowed, as he proclaimed the Assize of Bread and Ale which offered a chance to protect the people, to ensure fairness in my craft. I shared my knowledge with the lawmakers, and in return, they granted me respect.

My bread became a symbol of justice, a reassurance to the people that they would not be left hungry. I watched as the regulations took shape, ensuring that the people could afford their daily bread. Through my craft, I played a small but vital role in maintaining order and fairness, even as I knew that bread was not always enough to ensure happiness or justice. I saw the fairness the king sought to bring to the people, and I committed to upholding those laws, ensuring that every loaf I baked was of good quality and sold at a fair price.

But it was in France in the 18th century that my role as a baker turned dark. I had a bakery in Paris when the revolution ignited. My hands were covered in flour, and yet, I felt the blood of the innocent. In France, I felt the rumblings of revolution, the air thick with desperation as the people fought for every crumb. When the queen supposedly said, "Let them eat cake," I knew that it was a misunderstanding. She meant brioche, a type of bread, but the damage was done. People whispered in the streets, clutching their empty bellies. I worked through the night, kneading dough and baking bread to feed the hungry, but it was never enough. The storm came, and the monarchy fell, but I continued baking.

I crossed the ocean and found myself in Lawrence, Massachusetts in 1912. I listened to the stories of the textile workers, their voices filled with anger and sadness. I watched as they marched through the streets, demanding a better life. I was there for the Bread and Roses strike, my bread fuelling the workers as they fought for a better life. I baked through the night, the smell of fresh bread wafting through the air, a beacon of hope in the darkness. With each loaf, I handed out a piece of dignity, a reminder that they deserved more than mere sustenance. I baked bread for them, giving them sustenance for their struggle. They called it "bread and roses," and I knew that what they wanted was not only food but dignity.

In Russia, the cold nights and endless queues for bread tested my resolve. The people were suffering, and I could only do so much. It was not enough, but still, I baked, hoping that each loaf would be a lifeline to someone. It was there that I began to question my own immortality. What good was living forever if I could not save them all? I saw the lines for bread grow longer and longer as the people suffered. I baked day and night, but the demand was too great, and my heart ached for the hungry masses. The revolution came in 1917, sweeping the tsar from power, and I watched as the world changed once more. It was then that I realized the fragility of empires and the responsibility that fell upon me as a humble baker.

I had been in Ireland during the Great Famine of 1845-1852, watching as the blight destroyed the potatoes and I watched as the potato crops withered and died, leaving the people with nothing. It was heart-wrenching to see my fellow humans starve, and I knew I must act. I did my best to provide bread, but the need was overwhelming. I taught them how to bake with what little they had, a lesson in survival and resilience. I baked bread, trying to fill the void, but the suffering was too great. I saw families torn apart, forced to leave their homeland in search of a better life.

I have seen hunger take many forms, from the depths of the Irish Potato Famine to the countless wars and disasters that have shaped the world. My life has been an endless dance with dough, a story of the rise and fall of empires, a history written in crumbs. I have seen the power of bread to ignite revolutions and soothe the souls of the desperate. For centuries, I have borne witness to humanity's struggle and triumph.

With each loaf I shape, I carry the weight of history, the hopes and dreams of those who have come before me. I will continue to bake, to provide sustenance and comfort, as long as there is need. I am the immortal baker, forever tied to humanity's hunger for sustenance and justice. And as long as there is hunger in the world, my purpose remains unfulfilled. For bread is more than food; it is a symbol of our shared humanity, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit.

/ ˈaɪ wəʊk bɪ.ˈfɔː ðə sʌn rəʊz / ˈlaɪk ˈaɪ ˈɔːl.weɪz dɪd / ˈaɪ rʌbd ðə sliːp frəm maɪ aɪz ənd ˈθɔːt əv ðə ˈlɒŋ ˈdeɪ ə.ˈhed / ðə striːts wər ˈemp.ti / ənd ði eə held ðə tʃɪl əv naɪt / ðə ˈvɪ.lɪdʒ slept / bət nɒt miː / ˈaɪ həd ˈwɜːk tə duː / ðə ˈfaɪər ɪn ði ˈʌv.n̩ wɔːmd maɪ feɪs əz ˈaɪ prɪ.ˈpeəd ðə dəʊ fə ðə ˈdeɪz bred /

/ ˈðeɪ kɔːl miː ði ɪ.ˈmɔːt.l̩ ˈbeɪkə / ˈaɪ həd ˈsiːn ˈmen.i ˈlaɪf.taɪmz ənd ˈwɪt.nəst ˈmen.i ɪ.ˈvents / ˈaɪ həd lɪvd ɪn ðə ˈʃæ.dəʊz / maɪ hændz ˈɔːl.weɪz ˈkʌ.vəd ɪn ˈflaʊə / ˈaɪ həd lɪvd θruː ˌre.və.ˈluːʃ.n̩z ənd ˈsiːn ˈkɪŋ.dəmz fɔːl / bət ˈaɪ kept tə maɪ ˈwɜːk / ˈfiːd.ɪŋ ˈpiːp.l̩ / ˈʃeɪp.ɪŋ ˈhɪ.str̩i wʌn ləʊf ət ə ˈtaɪm / bred bɪˈk.eɪm mɔː ðən ˈsʌ.stɪ.nəns / ˈɪt wəz ə ˈsɪm.bl̩ əv laɪf ənd prɒ.ˈspe.rɪ.ti / ˈaɪ həʊnd maɪ skɪlz / ənd suːn maɪ bred wəz ˈsɔːt ˈɑːf.tə baɪ priːsts ənd nəʊ.ˈbɪ.lɪ.ti / ˈaɪ lɜːnd ðen ðət bred kəd bi bəʊθ ə ɡɪft ənd ə ˈpaʊə.fəl tuːl / 

/ ˈaɪ wəz ɪn ˈiː.dʒɪpt wen ðə ˈfɜːst ˈlev.n̩d bred wəz bɔːn / ˈaɪ rɪ.ˈmem.bə ðə ˈfɜːst ˈtaɪm ˈaɪ mɪkst ˈwɔː.tə wɪð ˈflaʊər ənd wɒtʃt əz ðə jiːst ˈkeɪm tə laɪf / ˈɪt wəz ɪn ˈiː.dʒɪpt / ˈθaʊz.n̩dz əv ˈjiəz ə.ˈɡəʊ / ənd ˈaɪ həd ˈne.və ˈsiːn ˈe.ni.θɪŋ kwaɪt ˈlaɪk ˈɪt / ˈaɪ wəz ə ˈsɪm.pl̩ mæn ðen / ˈlɜːn.ɪŋ maɪ krɑːft / ˌʌn.ə.ˈweə ðət maɪ laɪf wʊd stretʃ ɒn fə.ˈre.və / bət bred / ju ˈsiː / ˈɪt həʊldz ˈsiː.krɪts / ˈaɪ wɒtʃt əz ðə dəʊ ˈbʌb.l̩d ənd rəʊz / ðə smel əv jiːst ˈfɪl.ɪŋ ði eə / ðət ˈdeɪ / ˈsʌm.θɪŋ tʃeɪndʒd / ˈaɪ njuː ˈaɪ həd ə ˈpɜː.pəs / tə brɪŋ ðɪs ɡɪft tə ðə wɜːld / 

/ əz ðə ˈjiəz tɜːnd tə ˈsen.tʃə.rɪz / ˈaɪ ˈtræv.l̩d tə rəʊm / weər ˈaɪ ˈsɔː ðə raɪz əv ən ˈem.paɪə bɪlt ɒn ðə ˈprɒ.mɪs əv ˈpæ.nəm et sɜː.ˈken.sez / ɪn rəʊm / ˈaɪ ˈsɔːr ˈem.pə.rəz raɪz ənd fɔːl əz ˈðeɪ ˈtraɪd tə kən.ˈtrəʊl ðə ˈmæ.sɪz wɪð bred ənd ˈsɜːk.ə.sɪz / ˈaɪ ˈwɜːkt ɪn ðə hɑːt əv ði ˈem.paɪə / prə.ˈvaɪd.ɪŋ ˈsʌ.stɪ.nəns tə ðə ˈmæ.sɪz / maɪ bred wəz wel nəʊn / ənd ˈaɪ sɜːvd ˈɪt ˈfriː.li ˈdjʊər.ɪŋ ðə ɡeɪmz / ˈiːv.n̩ ði ˈem.pə.rəz ˈteɪ.stɪd maɪ ləʊvz / ənd ˈaɪ ˈrɪə.laɪzd ðət wɪð bred / ˈaɪ kəd wiːld ˈpaʊə / tu ˈɒ.fə bred wəz tu ˈɒ.fə ˈkʌm.fət / tə suːð ðə ˌdɪs.kən.ˈtent əv ə ˈhʌŋ.ɡri ˈpiːp.l̩ / ˈaɪ fed ðə plɪ.ˈbiːənz / ðeə hændz ˌaʊt.ˈstretʃt / ˈhʌŋ.ɡər ɪn ðeər aɪz / ˈaɪ ˌʌn.də.ˈstʊd ðə ˈpaʊər əv bred ðen / ðə ˈlaɪ.flaɪn ˈɪt prə.ˈvaɪ.dɪd tə ðə ˈpiːp.l̩ / ˈaɪ ˈwɜːkt ˈdeɪ ənd naɪt / maɪ hændz rɔː / maɪ ˈbæk eɪk.ɪŋ / bət ˈɪt ɡeɪv miː ə sens əv ˈpɜː.pəs / 

/ ˈaɪ krɒst ðə siːz tə ðə ʃɔːz əv ˈɪŋ.ɡlənd / ənd wen ˈaɪ ə.ˈraɪvd ɪn ˌme.dɪ.ˈiːv.l̩ ˈɪŋ.ɡlənd ɪn twelv ˈsɪk.sti sɪks / ˈaɪ faʊnd ə njuː ˈtʃæ.ləndʒ / ˈaɪ stʊd bɪ.ˈfɔː kɪŋ ˈhen.ri θriː / maɪ hed baʊd / əz hi prə.ˈkleɪmd ði ə.ˈsaɪz əv bred ənd eɪl wɪtʃ ˈɒ.fəd ə tʃɑːns tə prə.ˈtekt ðə ˈpiːp.l̩ / tu ɪn.ˈʃʊə ˈfeə.nɪs ɪn maɪ krɑːft / ˈaɪ ʃeəd maɪ ˈnɒl.ɪdʒ wɪð ðə ˈlɔː.meɪkəz / ənd ɪn rɪ.ˈtɜːn / ˈðeɪ ˈɡrɑːn.tɪd miː rɪ.ˈspekt /

/ maɪ bred bɪˈk.eɪm ə ˈsɪm.bl̩ əv ˈdʒʌst.ɪs / ə ˌrɪə.ˈʃuː.rəns tə ðə ˈpiːp.l̩ ðət ˈðeɪ wʊd nɒt bi left ˈhʌŋ.ɡri / ˈaɪ wɒtʃt əz ðə ˌre.ɡjʊ.ˈleɪʃ.n̩z ˈtʊk ʃeɪp / ɪn.ˈʃʊər.ɪŋ ðət ðə ˈpiːp.l̩ kəd ə.ˈfɔːd ðeə ˈdeɪ.li bred / θruː maɪ krɑːft / ˈaɪ ˈpleɪd ə smɔːl bət ˈvaɪt.l̩ rəʊl ɪn meɪn.ˈteɪn.ɪŋ ˈɔː.dər ənd ˈfeə.nɪs / ˈiːv.n̩ əz ˈaɪ njuː ðət bred wəz nɒt ˈɔːl.weɪz ɪ.ˈnʌf tu ɪn.ˈʃʊə ˈhæp.i.nəs ɔː ˈdʒʌst.ɪs / ˈaɪ ˈsɔː ðə ˈfeə.nɪs ðə kɪŋ ˈsɔːt tə brɪŋ tə ðə ˈpiːp.l̩ / ənd ˈaɪ kə.ˈmɪ.tɪd tu ˌʌp.ˈhəʊld.ɪŋ ðəʊz lɔːz / ɪn.ˈʃʊər.ɪŋ ðət ˈev.ri ləʊf ˈaɪ beɪkt wəz əv ɡʊd ˈkwɒ.lɪ.ti ənd səʊld ət ə feə praɪs / 

/ bət ˈɪt wəz ɪn frɑːns ɪn ði ˌeɪ.ˈtiːnθ ˈsen.tʃə.ri ðət maɪ rəʊl əz ə ˈbeɪkə tɜːnd dɑːk / ˈaɪ həd ə ˈbeɪk.ə.ri ɪn ˈpæ.rɪs wen ðə ˌre.və.ˈluːʃ.n̩ ɪɡ.ˈnaɪ.tɪd / maɪ hændz wə ˈkʌ.vəd ɪn ˈflaʊə / ənd jet / ˈaɪ felt ðə blʌd əv ði ˈɪ.nəsnt / ɪn frɑːns / ˈaɪ felt ðə ˈrʌm.blɪŋz əv ˌre.və.ˈluːʃ.n̩ / ði eə θɪk wɪð ˌde.spə.ˈreɪʃ.n̩ əz ðə ˈpiːp.l̩ ˈfɔːt fər ˈev.ri krʌm / wen ðə kwiːn sə.ˈpəʊ.zəd.li ˈsed / let ðəm iːt keɪk / ˈaɪ njuː ðət ˈɪt wəz ə ˌmɪs.ˌʌn.də.ˈstænd.ɪŋ / ʃi ment briː.ˈɒʃ / ə taɪp əv bred / bət ðə ˈdæ.mɪdʒ wəz dʌn / ˈpiːp.l̩ ˈwɪsp.əd ɪn ðə striːts / ˈklʌtʃ.ɪŋ ðeər ˈemp.ti ˈbe.liz / ˈaɪ ˈwɜːkt θruː ðə naɪt / ˈniːd.ɪŋ dəʊ ənd ˈbeɪkɪŋ bred tə fiːd ðə ˈhʌŋ.ɡri / bət ˈɪt wəz ˈne.vər ɪ.ˈnʌf / ðə stɔːm ˈkeɪm / ənd ðə ˈmɒ.nək.i fel / bət ˈaɪ kən.ˈtɪ.njuːd ˈbeɪkɪŋ / 

/ ˈaɪ krɒst ði ˈəʊʃ.n̩ ənd faʊnd maɪ.ˈself ɪn ˈlɒ.rəns / ˌmæ.sə.ˈtʃuː.sɪts ɪn wʌn ˈθaʊz.n̩d naɪn ˈhʌn.drəd ənd twelv / ˈaɪ ˈlɪs.n̩d tə ðə ˈstɔː.rɪz əv ðə ˈtek.staɪl ˈwɜːk.əz / ðeə ˈvɔɪ.sɪz fɪld wɪð ˈæŋ.ɡər ənd ˈsæd.nəs / ˈaɪ wɒtʃt əz ˈðeɪ mɑːtʃt θruː ðə striːts / dɪ.ˈmɑːnd.ɪŋ ə ˈbe.tə laɪf / ˈaɪ wəz ðə fə ðə bred ənd ˈrəʊ.zɪz straɪk / maɪ bred ˈfjuːəl.ɪŋ ðə ˈwɜːk.əz əz ˈðeɪ ˈfɔːt fər ə ˈbe.tə laɪf / ˈaɪ beɪkt θruː ðə naɪt / ðə smel əv freʃ bred ˈwɒft.ɪŋ θruː ði eə / ə ˈbiːkən əv həʊp ɪn ðə ˈdɑːk.nəs / wɪð iːtʃ ləʊf / ˈaɪ ˈhæn.dɪd ˈaʊt ə piːs əv ˈdɪɡ.nɪ.ti / ə rɪ.ˈmaɪn.də ðət ˈðeɪ dɪ.ˈzɜːvd mɔː ðən mɪə ˈsʌ.stɪ.nəns / ˈaɪ beɪkt bred fə ðəm / ˈɡɪv.ɪŋ ðəm ˈsʌ.stɪ.nəns fə ðeə ˈstrʌɡ.l̩ / ˈðeɪ kɔːld ˈɪt bred ənd ˈrəʊ.zɪz / ənd ˈaɪ njuː ðət ˈwɒt ˈðeɪ ˈwɒnt.ɪd wəz nɒt ˈəʊn.li fuːd bət ˈdɪɡ.nɪ.ti / 

/ ɪn ˈrʌ.ʃə / ðə kəʊld naɪts ənd ˈend.lɪs kjuːz fə bred ˈtest.ɪd maɪ rɪ.ˈzɒlv / ðə ˈpiːp.l̩ wə ˈsʌ.fər.ɪŋ / ənd ˈaɪ kəd ˈəʊn.li də ˈsəʊ ˈmʌtʃ / ˈɪt wəz nɒt ɪ.ˈnʌf / bət stɪl / ˈaɪ beɪkt / ˈhəʊp.ɪŋ ðət iːtʃ ləʊf wʊd bi ə ˈlaɪ.flaɪn tə ˈsʌm.wʌn / ˈɪt wəz ðə ðət ˈaɪ bɪ.ˈɡæn tə ˈkwes.tʃən maɪ əʊn ˌɪ.mɔː.ˈtæ.lɪ.ti / ˈwɒt ɡʊd wəz ˈlɪv.ɪŋ fə.ˈre.vər ɪf ˈaɪ kəd nɒt seɪv ðəm ɔːl / ˈaɪ ˈsɔː ðə laɪnz fə bred ɡrəʊ ˈlɒŋ.ɡər ənd ˈlɒŋ.ɡər əz ðə ˈpiːp.l̩ ˈsʌ.fəd / ˈaɪ beɪkt ˈdeɪ ənd naɪt / bət ðə dɪ.ˈmɑːnd wəz tuː ˈɡreɪt / ənd maɪ hɑːt eɪkt fə ðə ˈhʌŋ.ɡri ˈmæ.sɪz / ðə ˌre.və.ˈluːʃ.n̩ ˈkeɪm ɪn wʌn ˈθaʊz.n̩d naɪn ˈhʌn.drəd ənd ˌsevn.ˈtiːn / ˈswiːp.ɪŋ ðə zɑː frəm ˈpaʊə / ənd ˈaɪ wɒtʃt əz ðə wɜːld tʃeɪndʒd wʌns mɔː / ˈɪt wəz ðen ðət ˈaɪ ˈrɪə.laɪzd ðə frə.ˈdʒɪ.lɪ.ti əv ˈem.paɪəz ənd ðə rɪ.ˌspɒn.sə.ˈbɪ.lɪ.ti ðət fel ə.ˈpɒn miː əz ə ˈhʌm.bl̩ ˈbeɪkə / 

/ ˈaɪ həd biːn ɪn ˈaɪə.lənd ˈdjʊər.ɪŋ ðə ˈɡreɪt ˈfæ.mɪn əv wʌn ˈθaʊz.n̩d eɪt ˈhʌn.drəd ənd ˈfɔː.ti faɪv tə wʌn ˈθaʊz.n̩d eɪt ˈhʌn.drəd ənd ˈfɪf.ti ˈtuː / ˈwɒtʃ.ɪŋ əz ðə blaɪt dɪˈstrɔɪd ðə pə.ˈteɪ.təʊz ənd ˈaɪ wɒtʃt əz ðə pə.ˈteɪ.təʊ krɒps ˈwɪ.ðəd ənd daɪd / ˈliːv.ɪŋ ðə ˈpiːp.l̩ wɪð ˈnʌ.θɪŋ / ˈɪt wəz hɑːt ˈrentʃ.ɪŋ tə ˈsiː maɪ ˈfe.ləʊ ˈhjuː.mənz stɑːv / ənd ˈaɪ njuː ˈaɪ məst ækt / ˈaɪ dɪd maɪ best tə prə.ˈvaɪd bred / bət ðə niːd wəz ˌəʊv.ə.ˈwelm.ɪŋ / ˈaɪ tɔːt ðəm ˈhaʊ tə beɪk wɪð ˈwɒt ˈlɪt.l̩ ˈðeɪ hæd / ə ˈles.n̩ ɪn sə.ˈvaɪv.l̩ ənd rɪ.ˈzɪ.lɪəns / ˈaɪ beɪkt bred / ˈtraɪ.ɪŋ tə fɪl ðə vɔɪd / bət ðə ˈsʌ.fər.ɪŋ wəz tuː ˈɡreɪt / ˈaɪ ˈsɔː ˈfæm.liz ˈtɔːn ə.ˈpɑːt / fɔːst tə liːv ðeə ˈhəʊm.lænd ɪn sɜːtʃ əv ə ˈbe.tə laɪf / 

/ ˈaɪ həv ˈsiːn ˈhʌŋ.ɡə ˈteɪk ˈmen.i ˈfɔːmz / frəm ðə depθs əv ði ˈaɪ.rɪʃ pə.ˈteɪ.təʊ ˈfæ.mɪn tə ðə ˈkaʊnt.ləs wɔːz ənd dɪ.ˈzɑː.stəz ðət həv ʃeɪpt ðə wɜːld / maɪ laɪf həz biːn ən ˈend.lɪs dɑːns wɪð dəʊ / ə ˈstɔː.ri əv ðə raɪz ənd fɔːl əv ˈem.paɪəz / ə ˈhɪ.str̩i ˈrɪt.n̩ ɪn krʌmz / ˈaɪ həv ˈsiːn ðə ˈpaʊər əv bred tu ɪɡ.ˈnaɪt ˌre.və.ˈluːʃ.n̩z ənd suːð ðə səʊlz əv ðə ˈde.spə.rət / fə ˈsen.tʃə.rɪz / ˈaɪ həv bɔːn ˈwɪt.nəs tə hjuː.ˈmæ.nə.tiz ˈstrʌɡ.l̩ ənd ˈtraɪəmf /

/ wɪð iːtʃ ləʊf ˈaɪ ʃeɪp / ˈaɪ ˈkæ.ri ðə weɪt əv ˈhɪ.str̩i / ðə həʊps ənd driːmz əv ðəʊz ˈhuː həv ˈkʌm bɪ.ˈfɔː miː / ˈaɪ wl̩ kən.ˈtɪ.njuː tə beɪk / tə prə.ˈvaɪd ˈsʌ.stɪ.nəns ənd ˈkʌm.fət / əz ˈlɒŋ əz ðə ɪz niːd / ˈaɪ əm ði ɪ.ˈmɔːt.l̩ ˈbeɪkə / fə.ˈre.və taɪd tə hjuː.ˈmæ.nə.tiz ˈhʌŋ.ɡə fə ˈsʌ.stɪ.nəns ənd ˈdʒʌst.ɪs / ənd əz ˈlɒŋ əz ðə ɪz ˈhʌŋ.ɡər ɪn ðə wɜːld / maɪ ˈpɜː.pəs rɪ.ˈmeɪnz ˌʌn.fʊl.ˈfɪld / fə bred ɪz mɔː ðən fuːd / ˈɪt ɪz ə ˈsɪm.bl̩ əv ˈaʊə ʃeəd hjuː.ˈmæ.nɪ.ti / ə ˈte.stə.mənt tə ðə rɪ.ˈzɪ.lɪəns əv ðə ˈhjuː.mən ˈspɪ.rɪt /