Peak Cheese

I can’t believe I’m typing this, but the day has come, and I just have to share it with you all. After extensive research, training, and pushing myself beyond the limits of what I thought was possible, it’s finally happened. The culmination of years of work. I have hit: peak cheese. Now, I enjoy cheese – brie, double cream brie, soft cheese with sweet chilli sauce, baked camembert with crusty bread (and a G&T) and many more besides.
But the past two weeks has ensured I’ve actually found a limit.

A show run of a rugby playing play has succeeded where years of buffets, kitchen parties, snacks, any gathering involving wine, (and did I mention the buffets?) have previously failed. I am cheesed out. I have reached full cheese capacity. I am at maximum volume de fromage. There have been tasty suppers every single night of the past two weeks which we’ve been grazing on in between tackles and costume changes. So that’s it. No more. I don’t even want to look at another brie.

Erm. Unless. Unless of course you’re going to add a honeycomb malteser into the equation. Because let me tell you that is a whole different theorem. Not only are honeycomb maltesers the most divine of all the malteser varieties, mocking the classic option and leaving the malteaster bunny stumbling lamely in its wake. Extensive research has also shown that they are not complete without a carefully sliced smudge of double cream brie. You know, to wear as a jaunty little hat. They add a fancy little frisson to any scene change and I will not give them up.

There are other none cheese related memories from the past weeks and months of course. I now won’t watch rugby without remembering the time I scored a try on stage. Even if the ref disallowed it…
There has been hours of rehearsals, which morphed into rugby training, which morphed into the most complicated choreography I’ve been a part of. There’s been bruises, and bleeding, and swearing at each other (most of it scripted). We’ve been stroppy bitches, who have barrrstards for husbands, who just want to be noticed but don’t need a man. We drink the blood of the rooster, hoe into the booze, and teach old pervs a lesson.
We’re the Hurridames, no matter how many fingers you’re holding up. Now piss off I need to sleep for a week.