Cheese. Thousands of them.

Autumn is definitely here. The misty, cool mornings.  The evocative smell of woodsmoke on the air.  Birds massing in the sky in a slightly menacing manner.  Hedgehogs and that.

And what happens at the start of Autumn, lovely readers?  Why, the Frome Cheese Show happens.  And I was there.  Well, me and Mr WithaY.  And the dog.  We were all there.

Last time we attempted to go, we left it a little too late in the day - about 11am, as I recall -  and were thwarted by ridiculous traffic tailbacks which went on for miles and miles.  We turned tail and came home, disappointed and annoyed at our lack of forethought.

This year it was different.  I bought the tickets in advance, saving us 6 quid in the process, marvellous, and we were up early, turning our shining morning faces to the sun, dog all fed and brushed and ready to go, cheese money burning holes in our pockets.

We do like a bit of cheese in our house.

The dog was very excited.  Well, we all were really.  We left home at 8am-ish, drove the short distance to the showground - no traffic - and in we went, unimpeded by queues or hassles of any description.  It was quite misty, and the grass was soaking wet, making everyone* pick their way through it, grumbling about wet feet.

The first thing we spotted was this:

I think it's a tribute to Thelwell.  The children were all fiercely determined, grim-faced and focused as their teeny ponies trotted back and forth in an endless competition of some kind, more or less under control.  It was just lovely.

As you can see, the mist is already burning off, and the blue sky behind it can be glimpsed.  We decided to go and look at the cheese tent.  We took it in turns, one of us standing outside with the dog while the other one went in and admired the cheese. And by Swansea it was admirable.

This one looks like the winner of the CSI Somerset Crime Scene Reconstruction section.  I was tempted to draw a chalk outline round the grisly remains, but there were many burly cheese officials wandering the tent, and I lost my nerve.

Some of the cheese categories were baffling.  At least to the uninitiated.

Lemon meringue?  Really?

I did like the shy mozzarella, which is like a badger cub on Springwatch, needing to be coaxed out of its bag.

I expect the judges used high-quality crackers to lure it.

Competition categories were inspired.

I wonder who the cheese-judging celebrity was this year?  And how do they phrase the invitation.

"Hello - Elton?  Are you busy on the first weekend in September?  No?  Would you like to come and judge a huge tent full of cheese in Somerset for a morning?  No?  Really? Are you sure?  Hello...?  Hello...?"

This sign leaves little to be queried:

I assume the competitors have to make up their "cakes" before they arrive, rather than forage around helping themselves to cheeses which look the part.  But I do like the idea that there are people casually pocketing cheeses as they go round, thinking "This one is shaped just like a teeny bridegroom! Perfect!"

This cheese captured my heart, just because it's so completely mad.

It was big, too.  About the size of a watermelon.

This category was nicely specific.  I imagine the judges measuring each entry and flinging those on incorrectly-sized boards out into the pony-competition ring in a fury.

Some cheeses had the look of a cheese which had been made to take part against their will, under protest.

"But Muuuuuuuum!  All the other cheeses are way bigger than me!  I'll be laughed at!"

I bet they were told, "Oh, you'll be fine, stop making a fuss."

Ha.

Exhausted by so much dairy produce, I went and watched the dog obedience teams while Mr WithaY went and looked at the cheese.  The dog was supposed to watch and learn.

I don't think she was taking it all in, to be honest.  She certainly didn't seem too keen when I suggested she had a go jumping through the hoops of fire.

The day was heating up by now, and we had bought quite a lot of cheese - which gets heavy - so we decided to go and look at the animals for a bit, where it might be shadier.

I love the Tent Of A Thousand Goats.  Sadly, no dogs allowed, so I popped in and admired the poultry tent while Mr WithaY took the dog to see some tractors.

Again, a wide selection of competition categories, some stranger than others:

Gosh, that's a bit, well, harsh.  Surely beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and one man's ideal egg is another man's marginally less ideal egg?  Although that one is a corker, I must say.

It's an EGG.  What do they expect to be inside it?  A previously undiscovered novel by Dickens?  A jewelled clock?   Shergar?

Cuh.

I suspect foul** play here.  Not only has an element of the category title been redacted in a professional, indeed an almost FBI-like, manner, the eggs themselves are missing.  Where are they?  Stolen?  Kidnapped?  Currently making up part of a prizewinning Victoria Sponge?   I demand answers.

How Victorian.  A freak show.  Again, note the sinisterly empty egg plate in the top left corner.  I hope the hens who laid these at least got a cup of tea or something afterwards.

This is just a very pretty little decorated egg which I wanted to photograph. Awwh.

Ah, even here, the cult of shallow shell-deep beauty permeates.

Mind you, if I was brought a boiled egg or two on a tray looking like this, I'd be thrilled.

Fantastic.  I wonder if they all came from the same hen?  And if so, what are they feeding her?

Personally I preferred the one with the blue eggs, but hey, I'm not an egg judge.  Ohhh, I've wasted my life.

By the time I had finished wandering through the poultry tent, making admiring noises and chuckling to myself, it was getting really hot.  I went and found Mr WithaY and the dog, and we all sat in the shade having a drink and a bit of a nice rest.

A little bit more wandering through the show, and it was time to head home.  I was deeply gratified to see the massive queues of traffic, stretching all the way from the showground, far across West Wiltshire, cars full of hot grumpy people who hadn't got up as early as we had.  Bwahahahahahaaaa.

In other news:  The dog has been a bit poorly, so I took her to the vet yesterday.  He diagnosed a bout of colitis, which apparently is really common in young dogs, particularly the ones which hoover up anything and everything in their path when they are out for a walk.  So, she's got some special anti-squit medicine to help sort her stomach out, and some goopy brown stuff I add to her food to restore her internal bacteria balance.

Last night, for the first time in several days, I only had to get up and let her out into the garden once (at 4am) rather than on the hour, every hour, as it had been recently.  A huge relief for both her and I.

Other, other news:  We've had the go-ahead from the environmental health lady and so our catering business is officially up and running.  We have our first job booked for October, but this week we are going to get some business cards sorted out and some adverts in the local press, and hopefully pick up some more bookings.

Also, I have had my hair cut short.  I decided that I was bored with it - I've had long hair for at least 10 years now - so went into Salisbury last week and had about 10 inches cut off it.  It's quite liberating.  I realised that I almost always wore my hair up, and it seemed a bit pointless having long hair if whenever it was down I just got annoyed because it was in the way.

So, a new look, a new business, a new season.  Oh, and I've lost a stone, thanks to walking the dog.  Hurrah.





*Everyone not wearing sensible boots or shoes with gaiters.  I had fabric shoes on, and my feet were SOAKED.


**heh

The horror...

Have you ever bought some nice soft French cheese, maybe a small whole Camembert, and thought "I'll put that in the fridge, and in a day or two it will be just perfect."   Have you?

And then you make different meals that don't involve cheese in any shape or form.  And then, after a week or so, you've all but forgotten it's there.

Oh, perhaps you had to put it into a sealed plastic box after a day or two, as it was smelling particularly cheesy, but otherwise it's been no trouble.

And then, then, one day, your husband decides to rummage around in the fridge, looking for something nice for his lunch.  He finds the box with the small whole Camembert in it, and opens it in a spirit of keen scientific enquiry. 

He removes the cheese from the box, leaving it on the side, while he starts looking for cheese biscuits.

Readers, it only takes a very few moments for the smell of that cheese to permeate the entire room, then the house. 

I immediately began heaving violently, and had to beg him to take it outside.  He did so, doubled up with laughter as I gagged and retched into the kitchen sink, finally dropping the offending cheese into the wheelie bin in the garden.

We may be sued by the dustmen.

Cheese!

Well, the Frome Cheese Show was fab. I took pictures. In fact, I took so many pictures that I am going to do a seperate link to them. But for now, a few highlights:

There were many, many cheeses:



Hands up anyone who wants to imagine how that tent smelt by about 3pm on a hot, hot day?

Mmmm. Cheesy.

There were some fantastic, prizewinning cheeses:


Was a bit like a dairy version of Crufts, I imagine, but without the agility. Mind you, it was warm enough in there to make a few of the cheeses rather lively.

There were tractors:



This one with the windmill on it wins my "Things I don't EVER want to get stuck behind" award:



There was a hay and silage tent, which was full of very old men sniffing the sacks and looking critical. Here is a prize-winning sack:



Clearly a winner, I think you'll agree.

One of my favourite things was the pack of beagles. Aaaah. Beagles:



But the best tent of all (hence the many, many photos) was the Produce Tent. Hurrah.
There was jam:



Cakes:





I love the stern notes left on things.



These have cheese AND cake! Perfect!


Vegetables:









Things made FROM vegetables:






(How did the sheep only get fifth? He was robbed!)

Oh, so much stuff. We had a grand day.

American Cheese

Am currently sitting at my desk eating a rather depressing prawn sandwich, trying not to panic about my Huge Important Presentation this afternoon.

I realised at 4am that I had forgotten to send my presentation to the Very Senior and Important Person I am going through it with this afternoon, so now he'll think I'm a fuckwit before I even start. Gah.

I will stay in the office for another hour or so then fight my way across the South West to be in Bath for 4pm for my meeting. And I look like shit because I was awake at 4am, panicking. Which was helpful.

It'll take more than a bit of lipstick to sort this out. Even my Emergency Last Resort Virgin Vie Sparkly Lipstick.

This is so not the lifestyle I envisaged when I was young.

A few years ago I registered on Friends Reunited, and a few of my old school mates got in touch. It was lovely to hear from them, about their lives, their children, their achievements and their troubles. That was great. Hello Caroline, Sophia, Kim, Kate, Charlotte.

Well, not the troubles part, but you know what I mean.

However, I had a real mid-life crisis when one of them commented in an email "I can't believe what you do for a living. I always thought you'd be a writer." And for the first time in many, many years I looked at myself and thought "Well shit. I always thought I'd be a writer too."

Maybe that's why I started blogging. It makes me feel as though I can still do it. I can still affect other people a bit. Tell them stuff they maybe didn't know. Engage them for a while.

I try now and again to put a story together, but it is hard work. Blogging is much easier in comparison. The more I read of other peoples' stuff the more I realise how much talent is out there. Still, at least it keeps me entertained.

Heard from my lovely Youngest Sis that she didn't get through her bike test this morning. Arse. Still, it means I hang onto my Queen of Smugness crown as I passed mine first time, and Mr WithaY didn't. And now neither did she.

I have been looking at bikes on eBay, and wondering about biting the bullet and investing in something large and funky. I still fancy a Kawasaki Z, or maybe a Zephyr, but having drooled all over Bill the Spill's Harley when he was up here I am also leaning towards the USA a little.

When Mr WithaY and I were in the States a few years ago our mate Joe took us to the local HD dealership in New Hampshire. We almost had kittens, running from bike to bike going "Look at THIS one!" and squealing excitedly.

All the cool Harley riders were very contemptuous. Till they found out we were English, then they were merely amused and slightly pitying, especially when we told them how much Harleys cost over here.

Then we spent an hour seriously trying to work out if it was cost-effective to get a couple shipped over to the UK. It was, but we couldn't afford it. However. Now we could.

I might go and visit Joe and Nancy again...heh. I still feel like I need a holiday and I adore New England. We are lucky enough to have kind friends there who let us stay with them when we come over, and don't object too much when we eat them out of house and home for a couple of weeks.

If anyone is ever in New Hampshire, go to Nancy's excellent cheese shop and deli - C'Est Cheese. She stocks fab interesting cheese which you can't find in the supermarkets.

I was horrified by the cheese section in the supermarket in Harwich. Or was it Hingham? Or Sandwich? Anyway, a small Cape Cod town. Not Provincetown though.

God I loved it there. Mr WithaY was a bit phased by it all, but only because he was getting eyed up by the cute local guys. Heh. I have some fab pictures of me on one of the hammocks on the beachfront. I want to go back. Today. I want to sit on the beach at Nauset. *sigh*

Anyway. Cheese counter outrage. They had two types of cheese, in huge square blocks, both bright yellow and deeply unappealing. However, their fruit counter kicked some serious arse. And you could buy hot clam chowder from a giant vat which is always a good thing in a supermarket.

Our mate on the Cape told us a story about her next door neighbour having to move house. Not as in "put everything in a van and go elsewhere". No, this was "pick up complete house and put it somewhere else entirely".

They had ordered a load of heating oil, which was to be delivered while they were at their other house in Boston. The delivery driver stuck the hose nozzle into what he thought was the right orifice in the house and began to pump hundreds of gallons of heating oil into the tank.

Only he didn't. Somehow, he missed the right oil tank hole and simply pumped the entire contents of his truck into their cellar (basement, American readers). The driver only realised what had happened when his truck was empty.

I like to imagine him standing there, watching his oil gauge dropping to zero, scratching his head thinking "Wow. This is a really big tank."

The oil company put their hands up and paid to have the house picked up, moved across the garden, all the oil pumped back out of the cellar, the earth removed and replaced with uncontaminated stuff and all the water table tests conducted at their expense. According to our mate's neighbours it was Hell On Toast for 6 months.

One of the few downsides to living where we do is that everyone has a septic tank in the garden. (No mains drainage, see). Fine, as long as they keep working. Every once in a while you have to get the nice man with the big sucky truck to come out and empty it. (Company motto on the back of his truck: "You dump it, we pump it." Really.) And when that happens, oh boy do you want to be somewhere else.

I was driving through the village on my way to work this morning when the unholy "tank emptying" stench filled the car.

When there's a 30mph speed limit, and people walking their dogs in the road, you can't just put your foot down and flee, screaming "Aaaaaiiieeeeee" however much you want to.

I drove the rest of the way hoping my suit didn't retain the stench. Still, if it did, my meeting will be brief. Heh.