Sometimes I do things that are so middle class that I could weep. I go on holiday to Tuscany, I drink New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc and I occasionally buy clothes from Boden (although they invariably get returned as I have yet to learn that I am nothing like the 20-year-old gazelles who model them in the catelogues).
When I walk in the park I have a Spaniel and Jack Russell trailing after me and I have just had my shopping delivered by Sainsbury’s. I suppose it could be worse but I have yet to register with Waitrose home delivery.
But the one thing I cannot bear which sets me apart from the real middle class is goats’ cheese. I read with hope in my heart that in a move to eliminate something called Q-Fever, European officials have overseen the slaughter of goats across the continent. I’ve nothing against goats as four-legged creatures who can navigate hills more surely than I can the pavement outside the front door, indeed I am a Capricorn so they are the beast of my birthsign.
But that cheese they produce – eeehhhhyuurrgg. According to my tastebuds it is the work of the devil, and in so many cases where the devil is involved it seems to be everywhere.
I had lunch with a friend earlier this week. One of the starters sounded so good – a shortcrust pastry tart (yum) with caramelised onions (double yum), and then they went and spoilt it all but having it topped with soe grilled goats’ cheese. Why on earth would someone do such a thing?
Other diners were happily scoffing away and I thought that asking for a bit of cheddar instead might elicit a Bateman-style chorus of appalled faces when they heard my request. So I had a crab and avocado tian instead.
So whilst I may feel sorry for the little horned animals, the fact is that the goats’ cheese topping will become a thing of the past and chefs will have to look once again to cows’ curds. As long as it isn’t blue, I won’t be either.