Cheesy moments


I fear I may be sliding back into the bad books – and greed, as ever, is the burned-out brake pad that is getting me there. To Wiltshire for the weekend, and the usual punishingly early start on Saturday morning, which is worth it for the early swim and the ridiculously good bargains that can be purchased at Salisbury market if one can only get there before 9am. This time is only arbitrary. For all I know, at 11.30 the place could be awash with absolute steals, but I’ll never know because my father will never ever risk it.

The fear that fires the starting gun on this early wake-up is the fear the place will run out of cheese. See, his fave is one of those stalls that sells on the cheese deemed by the supermarkets to be pushing its prime. So prime, in fact that it is less likely that the stalls will run out of cheese, but that the cheese will run out on them. Bloody hell it gets whiffy.

And that’s where we come in. Fifty per cent of the time I decline my father’s kind offer, and 50 per cent of the time I risk the politely raised eyebrows of my housemate. I wrap it in plastic, I put it in sealed Tupperware, I refrigerate it heavily. But even so the whiff escapes. And this time is worse than most because the weather has turned warmer. And yesterday afternoon proved all too painfully that it really REALLY is worse than usual.

How? Because I and this ammonia-sweating horror-bomb travelled back on the train together. Having scored a rare seat by disembarking at Salisbury and steeple-chasing up the platform to the newly attached carriages, I could finally read and thus unzipped the outside – the OUTSIDE pocket of the suitcase – to retrieve my book. With the cheese safely stashed in the heart of the baggage, I thought I’d be safe. A single waft was enough to shout that error. I snatched out the book (thereby displacing more pestilential vapours, of course), hurriedly zipped up again and deflected blame by glaring accusingly at my fellow passengers. I think I’ll be dining al fresco for the next few nights.

 Though on the plus side, the stench may dispel the foxes, who last night celebrated the continuing lack of fence panels between us and neighbours by collecting one of the neighbours’ rubbish sacks, dragging it over to our lawn and dismembering the bugger everywhere. I saw the rubbish this morning, sighed, and went to work. I’ll do it later. After the cheese course.


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