A Cheesy Romance


Emma K, international superstar, age 37


George M, international superstar, age 42

Here we go again. In an attempt to get away from it all, hubby whisks me off on a romantic night in DC. First he presents me with the gift of cheese. What is it about cheese that sets my loins aflame? Once again he had found his mark. And this was no ordinary cheese. No common or garden piece of Gouda. No rubbery cheddar or Dairylea square. Oh no. This cheese was art. One piece was studded with dried apricots, another had been rolled in rosemary. I savored every bite, then guzzled down as much as my stomach could hold without exploding and glugged down the Moet. Next we performed the activities that are required by law to be performed amongst married persons who find themselves naked, covered in champagne and in a bed and breakfast. Once the saucy part of the evening had been completed it was on to the concert.

I was to see George. My husband, who is 29, has no real knowledge of who George Michael is and how Careless Whisper is a milestone of sorts, the song that most of us thirty somethings did our first slow dance too. And so I found myself at this concert: 20,000 middle aged women in tight spandex screaming for George. And since I’d had a few glasses of champers I found myself screaming myself hoarse for George too. It was time to let go. It was time to say, I am an embarrassing old crone and this is where I can dance like a spaz and let it all hang out.

All I can say is that it was heaven. I was so close to the stage I could see into George’s eyes, into his very soul. I believe his sweat splattered me and I don’t think I will ever wash again. Although, I have to say, he doesn’t look too good for 42. All wrinkled like an old prune. Is this simply the way stars look who haven’t had ‘work’ done? Or is he suffering from some mysterious illness? I think we deserve to be told.

After the concert, things got a bit less romantic. When we got into bed, while I was still humming Georgie’s hits under my breath, I could immediately see there was a problem. There was a feather duvet under the sheet which just made me feel like I was suffocating. My husband fell asleep after about five minutes. I lay there for about five hours and then decided to take two cushions off the sofa, place them on the floor and sleep on those. Suffice to say, that wasn’t very successful either. I slept for about two hours before waking up in a really shit mood.

And then things got a bit less romantic still, when I insisted on wrapping all the left over cheese in cellophane and lugging it home. Yes, I had become my mother. There was no way I was leaving stuff at the hotel that I had paid for.

So when I got home I was carrying a reeking and sweltering bag of cheese.

Had it gone off?

It certainly smelt like it had.

Did I eat it?

Do you really need to ask?

Ever had a dirty weekend that ended with a whimper not a bang, and left you with the smell of cheese on your hands?