No one quite remembers where Auntie Marge—Mum’s friend—came from. To me, she seemed like she’d always existed, like rain, tea stains, and Gary Barlow. Dad reckoned she was a shadow government agent planted among ordinary folk for social experiments. Grandad, though, was convinced she was the fifth horseman of the Apocalypse, kicked out of the team for being too keen. Even Mum couldn’t properly explain how they knew each other. Auntie Marge was like that mystery key on the keyring—no idea what it’s for, but too scary to throw away.
Auntie Marge had no husband, no kids, but *plenty* of free time. Women like that are deadlier than a flu outbreak. You could encase her legs in concrete, drop her in the ocean, and she’d still stir up chaos until the fish grew legs just to escape onto land.
When it came to business sense, Auntie Marge had *negative* business sense. Every year, she’d rope us into her latest venture, and there was no escaping it—not even abroad. She had a passport, a multi-entry visa, spoke three languages fluently, but not one of them included the word *no*.
At one point, she sold Cuban skincare that gave Mum a silky moustache and a stubborn addiction. Then she knitted men’s underwear from synthetic merino wool—Dad’s turn to suffer. She promised him *”virile strength”* and demanded feedback after a month of wear. Dad gave it in three days. Rumor has it, Simon Cowell called that night asking for his autograph.
Grandad got his share too. Auntie Marge sold him dodgy supplements to *”cleanse the gut and regulate blood pressure.”* He ended up on the evening news for a week, and the weather forecast for a month every time he stepped outside.
She had *so* many ideas—handmade nettle soap, *healthy* sweets made of coriander and thistle, eel-skin accessories. She’d talk for hours about the benefits until you felt yourself devolving, scrambling for the door like a cavefish. When faith in God, science, and common sense finally crumbled, she’d offer a discount. And the victim gave in. As her *”dearest friends,”* we got the worst deal: free samples.
A month ago, Auntie Marge started making homemade cheese and bringing it over in *every* possible form. The smell was indescribable. Pretty sure our flat won’t be fit for sale or rent for another decade—not to mention the whole building. Only Grandad was pleased: no more sock-washing duty, and he even got praised for *”sticking to his principles.”*
The cheese was… odd. It broke graters, exploded microwaves, and vanished entirely in the oven. Sometimes we swore it *attacked* other fridge foods, turning them into cheese-like abominations.
Once, I tried adding it to pasta with ketchup. The result was weapons-grade uranium, and now our family’s banned from leaving the country for seven years.
Mum begged us to endure it. Auntie Marge swore the first batch was always dodgy, but the next one would be *”the bomb.”* Hearing that, Grandad carried a hammer for a week, threatening to cut us out of the will if even a crumb touched his plate. Dad had it worse—he loved Mum more than life (which is on him), so he had no choice.
As for me? Auntie Marge claimed kids these days *”ingest the whole periodic table”* and I might as well eat chocolate wrappers. *”Your blood’s probably half palm oil,”* she told Mum, while Grandad’s Geiger counter clicked wildly in the background. *”That thing’s no authority!”* she scoffed.
But then… something weird happened. The cheese *wasn’t* that bad. Sure, we downed a litre of charcoal before tasting it and stationed ourselves near the loo just in case. But the flavour? Shockingly… fine. Creamy, subtle spice, a soft nutty aftertaste. Mum made sandwiches, Dad tossed it in salad, and even Grandad—who caught a whiff from the kitchen—stole a few bites.
Auntie Marge had won. For the first time ever, her words matched reality. Though she *did* confess to Mum—the cheese wasn’t hers. Her new husband, a restaurant chef, made it. She’d nearly killed him on their first date with *”cheese soup,”* landing him three days on an IV. When he woke up, he claimed he’d *”seen the light”*—his life’s mission was saving humanity from Auntie Marge’s schemes. If she got *ideas*, he’d execute them himself and let her take credit. He even married her—probably out of duty to the planet.
Now, we keep a close eye on their marriage. And pray—*fervently*—that they stay happy together.
