Well... with my last loaf I spent most if the day watching this small round ball, sit there, and sit there and sit there.. I willed it to rise but no, it just sat there like, well a ball of dough really.
I took it to a bit of spare bench space, chucked a cloth over it and gave up on it and set off to work on something else. You know, I forgot about that pathetic wee ball and come dinner time when I lifted the cloth to tell it so, there it was, fat round and roly poly - staring at me in all its shiny goodness. I so didn't want to knock it back to it's pre swollen state, but if I wanted bread that was exactly what I had to do.. Funny how there is something quiet stress relieving in popping a ball of dough with a fist and let me tell you, there had been a fair bit of stress in this exercise. I seriously wasn't holding to much hope of it rising in time for me to cook it before I went to bed, and there was no way I was going to sit up and wait for this straggler.
Literally plonked onto a floured tray, this weird brown shaped thing was then unceremoniously shoved into the cold oven, left neglected and to just to get it out of the way really. Can you imagine my surprise when I woke to find a real, plump looking bread dough waiting for me.. If that bread could have talked I am sure it would have said.. " no faith that's ya problem"