I’ve just been away for three days for a work conference. Being new to the world of lectures and finger food I wasn’t familiar with conference clichés. I was surprised to hear more than one person jokingly refer to the concept of ‘what happens on the conference stays on the conference’ – something you hear more associated with buck’s night and hen’s dos than work junkets. Naïve me... apparently conferences are full of people at it like middle-aged bunnies, revelling in the freedom from spouses and children in work-funded four star hotels.
That said, I have a shocking admission to reveal – one that I should have left on the conference but the guilt is too strong and I have to come clean. I am ashamed dear world, for I have fallen off the cheese wagon.
As with all weak-willed junkies of excess I could of course lay the blame with the fiends who stuck a cheese slice in my egg buttie without telling me until it had melted into the eggie-goodness. I could also state that the chilli prawn pizza I ordered on Friday night did not list cheese as an ingredient on the menu. I could have done that. I could also have lied, dear reader, but this is not the Mint Custard way. So I stand before you and I look you in the pixelated eye and say “Yes. Cheesy goodness has crossed my lips. And it was good. And cheesy. And I’m sorry.”
I shall complete my fromage-free March (after all there’s only 8 days to go) but just like Little Miss Muffet, I’ve learnt a very big lesson. Don’t f*ck with curds and whey.