No one quite remembers where Aunt Marge—Mum’s friend—came from. To me, she seemed to have always existed, like darkness, rain on bank holidays, or Cliff Richard. Dad reckoned she was a shadow government agent planted among ordinary folk for social experiments. Grandad, meanwhile, was convinced she was the fifth horseman of the Apocalypse, kicked out for being too enthusiastic. Even Mum couldn’t properly explain how they knew each other. Aunt Marge was like that mysterious key on a keyring—no one knew what it was for, but tossing it felt wrong.
Aunt Marge had no husband, no children, but endless free time. Women like that are more dangerous than a flu outbreak. Pour concrete over her feet, drop her in the ocean—she’d still stir up chaos until every fish grew legs and fled to dry land.
If business sense were currency, Aunt Marge had a deficit. Every year, she subjected us to her latest venture, and escaping it was impossible, even abroad. She had a passport, a multi-entry visa, and spoke three languages fluently—yet none of them included the word *no*.
Once, she peddled dubious French skincare, leaving Mum with a silky moustache and an unshakable addiction. Then, she knitted men’s undergarments from synthetic merino wool—Dad’s turn to suffer. She promised him “virile stamina” and demanded feedback after a month’s wear. He gave it in three days. Rumor had it that evening, Tom Jones rang him for an autograph.
Grandad wasn’t spared either. Aunt Marge sold him “digestive cleansers” to “regulate his constitution.” He made the local news for a week—then the weather report for a month, every time he stepped outside.
Her ideas were endless: handmade soap with nettle extract, “health sweets” from coriander and thistle, eel-skin accessories. She could rant for hours about the virtues of her wares until her victims regressed to crawling on all fours. When faith in God, science, and common sense failed, she’d offer a discount. Surrender was inevitable. We, as her “dearest friends,” suffered most—receiving free samples.
Then, a month ago, Aunt Marge started making homemade cheese, delivering it in every possible form. Words couldn’t capture the stench. Our flat—no, the entire building—won’t be fit for sale or rent for a decade. Only Grandad was pleased; no one made him wash socks anymore, and they praised his stubbornness.
The cheese was odd. It broke graters, exploded microwaves, and vanished in ovens. Sometimes, we swore it attacked other fridge items, turning them into more cheese.
Once, I tried melting it into pasta with ketchup. The result was weapons-grade uranium, and now our family’s banned from overseas travel for seven years.
Mum pleaded patience. Aunt Marge insisted the first batch was rough, but the next would be “bang on.” Hearing that, Grandad carried a hammer for a week, vowing to cut us from his will if a crumb touched his plate. Dad had it worse—he loved Mum more than life (his own fault)—so resistance was futile.
As for me? Aunt Marge declared modern kids “walking periodic tables,” claiming I could eat chocolate wrappers for all it mattered. “Palm oil runs in your veins,” she told Mum, dismissing Grandad’s Geiger counter’s frantic clicks with, “What does *he* know?”
But then—something odd happened. The cheese wasn’t half bad. We’d prepped with litres of antacids and reinforced our trousers, just in case. Yet the taste? Surprisingly, it needed no apology. Creamy, gently spiced, with a nutty finish. Mum made sandwiches, Dad tossed it in salads, and Grandad—lured by the aroma—even took a few bites.
Aunt Marge had won. For once, her boasts held water, and a project met approval. Later, she confessed to Mum: the cheese wasn’t hers. Her new husband—a chef—made it after she nearly killed him on their first date with “cheese soup.” Three days on a drip, he awoke enlightened. Between life and death, he’d found his calling: sparing humanity from Aunt Marge’s schemes. If she fancied a venture, he’d execute it *properly*—letting her take credit. He even married her, likely out of planetary duty.
Now, we watch their marriage closely. And pray—fervently—that it lasts.
