I shall crush them like the puny things of bone and flesh they are...(part deux)

This courtesy jfs.

Health care gone mad...

Bwuh hah haaaaaa.

I shall crush them like the puny things of bone and flesh they are...(part deux)

This courtesy jfs.

Health care gone mad...

Bwuh hah haaaaaa.

No Wensleydale, Gromit?

Damn you, Wallace and Gromit, damn you.¹

I have just spent £26 on cheese. A nice big chunk of sentient Stilton, a decent size piece of Berkswell and a nicely mature single Cooleeney. But there is no Stinking Bishop, it has suddenly become harder to buy than a pork pie in Mecca. Until three months ago, no-one had ever heard of the bloody stuff; other than me and a bunch of Catholic priests who would buy it as a joke present for the bishop (the cheese emporium lies about a half way between the cathedral and the bishop’s residence), practically no-one knew of its existence. The rather sad looking cheese vendor (a man in a bowler hat and a butcher’s smock) informed me that he had ordered ten and had none delivered.

Such is the power of plasticine film stars.

I have bought instead, a cheese by the name of Vacherin Mont d’Or which I am informed is both runny and smelly². So runny in fact, that it is served with a spoon.

I am led to understand that some people wrap it in tin foil, douse in wine and bake it for 10 minutes. This apparently makes it into something like a fondue but with none of the usual hassles.

My furry cardio-vascular system and I are intrigued by the prospect.


¹But not really, of course.
²I am hopefully confident that it is actually a cheese with that description.

No Wensleydale, Gromit?

Damn you, Wallace and Gromit, damn you.¹

I have just spent £26 on cheese. A nice big chunk of sentient Stilton, a decent size piece of Berkswell and a nicely mature single Cooleeney. But there is no Stinking Bishop, it has suddenly become harder to buy than a pork pie in Mecca. Until three months ago, no-one had ever heard of the bloody stuff; other than me and a bunch of Catholic priests who would buy it as a joke present for the bishop (the cheese emporium lies about a half way between the cathedral and the bishop’s residence), practically no-one knew of its existence. The rather sad looking cheese vendor (a man in a bowler hat and a butcher’s smock) informed me that he had ordered ten and had none delivered.

Such is the power of plasticine film stars.

I have bought instead, a cheese by the name of Vacherin Mont d’Or which I am informed is both runny and smelly². So runny in fact, that it is served with a spoon.

I am led to understand that some people wrap it in tin foil, douse in wine and bake it for 10 minutes. This apparently makes it into something like a fondue but with none of the usual hassles.

My furry cardio-vascular system and I are intrigued by the prospect.


¹But not really, of course.
²I am hopefully confident that it is actually a cheese with that description.

(no subject)

I am developing a slight headache; it is very close here in the office. I think a few more rate-payers have been thrown on the furnace to counteract the forecast-but-not-yet-arrived cold weather.

Still, off home soon.

Like a siren the cheese calls me, and its aroma is seeping out of the wrapping.

I shall get a seat on the Tube tonight.

(no subject)

I am developing a slight headache; it is very close here in the office. I think a few more rate-payers have been thrown on the furnace to counteract the forecast-but-not-yet-arrived cold weather.

Still, off home soon.

Like a siren the cheese calls me, and its aroma is seeping out of the wrapping.

I shall get a seat on the Tube tonight.