**Auntie Marge’s Cheese**
No one quite remembers where Auntie Marge—Mum’s friend—came from. To me, she seemed to have always existed, like rain, pigeons, or Cliff Richard. Dad was convinced she was a shadow government agent planted among ordinary folk for social experiments. Grandad swore she was the fifth horseman of the Apocalypse, kicked out for overenthusiasm. Even Mum couldn’t explain how they’d met. Auntie Marge was like that mystery key on a keyring—no idea what it opened, but too unsettling to throw away.
Auntie Marge had no husband or children, but she did have an alarming amount of free time. Women like her are more dangerous than a flu outbreak. Pour concrete over her feet, toss her into the ocean—she’d still organise something so chaotic, fish would grow legs just to escape.
If we’re talking business sense, Auntie Marge had business *nonsense*. Every year, she subjected us to her latest scheme, and escaping wasn’t an option—not even abroad. She had a passport, a multi-entry visa, and spoke three languages fluently, yet somehow never learned the word “no.”
At one point, she peddled Cuban skincare products that left Mum with a silky moustache and an unshakable addiction. Then she knitted underwear from synthetic merino wool—Dad’s turn to suffer. She promised him “unshakable manly vigour” and demanded feedback after a month. Dad gave his review in three days. Rumour has it, Tom Jones called him that evening asking for advice.
Grandad wasn’t spared. Auntie Marge sold him supplements for “gut cleansing and blood pressure regulation.” He ended up on the news for a week, then spent a month being mistaken for a weather balloon whenever he stepped outside.
Her ideas were endless: artisanal soap with nettle extract, “healthy” sweets made of coriander and thistle, eel leather accessories. She’d lecture you on their benefits until you either surrendered or regressed into a quadrupedal state. When faith in science, God, and common sense finally crumbled, she’d offer a discount. The victim always folded. We, as her “dearest friends,” were luckiest of all—we got free samples.
A month ago, Auntie Marge started making homemade cheese and delivering it in every conceivable state. The smell was indescribable. Our flat—possibly the entire building—won’t be fit for sale or rent for a decade. Only Grandad rejoiced; no one made him wash socks anymore, and he got praised for “sticking to his principles.”
The cheese was… unusual. It blunted graters, exploded in microwaves, and evaporated in ovens. Sometimes we suspected it ambushed other fridge items, converting them into more cheese.
Once, I tried adding it to pasta with ketchup. The result was weapons-grade uranium. Our family’s now banned from international travel for seven years.
Mum begged us to endure. Auntie Marge insisted the first batch was just practice—the next would be “absolutely banging.” Grandad carried a hammer for a week and threatened to cut us out of his will if a single crumb touched his plate. Dad had it worse—he loved Mum more than life (his own fault), so resistance was futile.
As for me? Auntie Marge declared modern kids were “walking periodic tables” who could “eat chocolate wrappers for fibre.” My blood, she claimed, was probably 80% palm oil. Her cheese, though? *All natural.* (Grandad’s Geiger counter disagreed, but she scoffed, “What does *he* know?”)
Then something odd happened. The cheese wasn’t *bad*. True, we chugged a litre of antacids first and reinforced all biological exits in case of sudden decompression. But the taste? Shockingly decent—creamy, faintly spicy, with a smooth, nutty finish. Mum made sandwiches, Dad tossed it into salads, and even Grandad, lured by the aroma, sneaked a few bites.
Somehow, Auntie Marge had won. For once, her promises matched reality. Later, she confessed to Mum: *she* hadn’t made the cheese. Her new husband—a chef—had. Their first date nearly ended in manslaughter when she served him “cheese soup.” He spent three days on an IV, woke up enlightened, and vowed to save humanity from Auntie Marge’s schemes. Now, whenever she gets an idea, *he* executes it properly. He even married her—probably out of planetary solidarity.
We watch their relationship closely now. And pray, fervently, that they stay happily ever after.
