The baby Cheesus

I am in love with a cheese ball.

I know it’s wrong. I know it’s the love that dare not be voiced, the love that has no name. But I just cannot help myself.

 

Recently I went to a drinks party and there on the buffet it stood in all its magnificent glory. Spherical perfection. Formidable fromageness. Cheddarlicious cheesiness. Encrusted in thick black wax, a chorus of halleluiahs accompanied the opening. I imagine it was something like that at the birth of the baby Jesus.

My cheese comes from Sainsburys. The perfect cheese ball came from the milk of virgin cows raised on the summit of mist encrusted Welsh mountains and cannot be purchased in a mere shop. I imagine one must make supplication to the cheesemaker direct three years in advance together with payment and an essay demonstrating an indepth understanding of the cheese tasting experience and your worthiness to be in its vicinity.

I still dream that we will meet again. That I will spy that beautiful rounded body across a crowded room. But it is only a fantasy. And the knowledge that I will never ever ever have that gorgeous irreplaceable taste in my mouth is killing me.  

 

And now I am alone with just my memories of that cheese ball. I can’t even look at my Sainsburys cheese now, with its revolting rectangular shape and its declaration of being “mature”  - oh wow, how exciting, you are mature.

You disgust me.