**Mum’s Friend’s Cheese**
No one quite remembers where Aunt Margaret—Mum’s friend—came from. To me, she’d always been there, like bad weather, pigeons, or Cliff Richard. Dad reckoned she was a shadow government operative planted among ordinary folk for social experiments. Grandad swore she was the fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse, kicked out for being too zealous. Even Mum couldn’t explain how they knew each other. Aunt Margaret was like that odd key on your ring—useless, but you’d never dare toss it.
She had no husband, no kids, just endless spare time. Women like that are deadlier than the flu. Drop her into the ocean, and she’d organise the fish into building a shopping centre before swimming back to shore.
Business-wise, Aunt Margaret was a walking catastrophe. Every year, she’d rope us into her newest scheme, and escaping wasn’t an option—she had a passport, a multi-entry visa, and spoke three languages fluently, none of which included the word “no.”
Once, she sold Cuban skincare that gave Mum a silky moustache and a worrying addiction. Then she knitted boxers from synthetic merino wool—Dad’s personal torment. She promised “unstoppable virility” and demanded feedback after a month. Dad lasted three days. Rumor has it, Elton John called for fashion advice.
Grandad wasn’t spared. She peddled him supplements for “gut cleansing and blood pressure.” He made headlines for a week, then the weather report for a month every time he stepped outside.
The ideas never stopped: handmade soap with nettle extract, “healthy” sweets from coriander and thistle, eel-based accessories. She’d proselytise until you felt yourself regressing to crawling on all fours. When faith, science, and reason failed, she’d offer a discount. Resistance was futile. As her “dearest friends,” we got free samples.
A month ago, Aunt Margaret started making homemade cheese, delivering it in every conceivable form. The smell? Indescribable. Our flat won’t be fit for sale or rent for a decade—nor will the building. Only Grandad was pleased; no one nagged him about laundry anymore.
The cheese was… peculiar. It destroyed graters, exploded microwaves, and vanished in ovens. Sometimes, we swore it attacked other fridge items, converting them into more cheese.
I once tried it with pasta and ketchup. The result was weapons-grade. We’re now banned from international travel for seven years.
Mum pleaded patience. Aunt Margaret promised the next batch would be “the bomb.” Grandad carried a hammer for a week, vowing to cut us from his will if even a crumb touched his plate. Dad, who loves Mum more than life (his own fault), had no choice.
As for me? Aunt Margaret declared modern kids “walking periodic tables” who could digest chocolate wrappers. My blood, she claimed, was palm oil. Natural, unlike hers—never trust Grandad’s Geiger counter, she scoffed.
Then, the impossible happened. The cheese wasn’t half bad. We took precautions—charcoal tablets, strategic bathroom access—but the taste needed no disguise. It was creamy, subtly spiced, with a nutty finish. Mum made sandwiches. Dad tossed it in salads. Even Grandad, lured by the scent, had seconds.
Aunt Margaret had won. For once, her promises held up. Though she later confessed to Mum: she hadn’t made it. Her new husband, a chef she’d nearly killed on their first date with “cheese soup,” had. Three days on an IV, he’d seen his purpose—to save humanity from her schemes. If she had an idea, he’d execute it properly, letting her take credit. He married her out of planetary duty.
Now, we watch their marriage closely. And pray—fervently—that it lasts.
**Lesson: Some people’s madness needs a minder. Thank heaven for sensible spouses.**
