IT'S the end of cake as we know it.

For the past three years people have been flocking to my corner of the city to eat delicious things. Let me tell you, this is significant. It is significant because no one flocks to my corner of Glasgow. It is one of the most deprived postcodes in Scotland.

I have friends who refuse to come to the south side of Glasgow from leafy wherever to visit, yet would come to the south side of Glasgow for pie or brioche or salted millionaire's shortbread or one of those cherry mazarins from Bakery 47. I should perhaps revisit my understanding of the word "friend". But the cake was good, it was worth a journey.

And people journeyed. They would start queueing around 8am for a 9am bakery opening. You'd see them arriving and leaving by private hire. I always found that amusing. People, when declaring a desire to live in the west end or the suburbs, often speak of poor transport links to the south of the city. Such nonsense. In the environs of Bakery 47 are two train stations, more than half a dozen bus routes and a Subway stop 10 minutes walk away. Perhaps they'd simply bought too much cake to carry on the 38A.

But I'm not here to sell the south side to you. I'm here to lament the closing of Bakery 47. This weekend is the first weekend there will be no fresh sourdough with green eggs or artichoke and feta pie. Like many others, I will not know what to do with myself. My belly will be left to rumble a requiem for the passing of the beetroot and chocolate cake and the cheese and Marmite croissants.

I should not lament: I've spent three years stock piling and my stomach is heavier while my wallet far lighter.

What made Bakery 47 different was that everything was perfect. It was perfect because it was a business driven by artistic goals. Commerce came a poor second next to excellence. Anna and Sam, the owners, were artists and interested, it seemed, in bringing people together socially to create a new community, rather than to turn a profit. The success was almost accidental. People came because it was just really, really good. When it became clear that the venture was a successful going concern, they shut.

In their statement about closing the business they said they wanted to make, "something which will encourage people to question the expectation to always have what we want when we want it and to often not consider what has gone into the goods we consume." Therefore, they opened four days a week and the hours were simply until they sold out.

Businesses seldom prioritise perfection over profits. Arguably, they prefer to seek the sweet spot between serving and exploiting the public. Most businesses germinate from a desire to make money and so from business owners identifying a gap to be filled, a profit to be driven.

You might say Bakery 47 sounds a bit airy fairy, a bit eye-rollingly hipster. Compare this, though, to Michael O'Leary, a dark knight of commerce. At the helm of Ryanair, he places his customers in a moral vice - we love cheap flights, we're squeamish at thoughts of underpaid pilots. We love what he does, we hate how he does it.

There's little to hate about a Bakery 47-style business model, other than falling in love with somewhere that then leaves you.

Not for profit, not overheads, not global expansion. An attempt at doing things differently, and well enough even to bring well-heeled people south.

I will greatly miss having such a lovely resource on my doorstep but it's a lesson in consumerism, learning that what the customer wants is not necessarily what the customer might get. That we are not for exploitation or service but two parties making an equal exchange.