No one quite recalls where Aunt Marge—Mum’s friend—came from. To me, she seemed to have always existed, like the rain, draughts under the door, or Cliff Richard. Dad was convinced she was a secret agent planted among ordinary folk for some shadowy social experiment. Grandad swore 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 odd key on a ring—no one knew what it opened, but tossing it felt reckless.
She had no husband, no children, but endless free time. Women like that are more dangerous than the plague. Pour concrete over her feet, drop her to the ocean floor—she’d still stir up chaos until every fish grew legs and fled to dry land.
When it came to business sense, Aunt Marge had a full-blown blockage. Every year, she doomed us to her latest venture, and escape was impossible, even abroad. She had a passport, visas, spoke three languages fluently—yet none contained the word *no*.
Once, she peddled Cuban skincare that left Mum with a silky moustache and an unshakable habit. Then came hand-knitted woolen undergarments—Dad’s torment. She promised “unshakable virility” and demanded feedback after a month’s wear. He gave it in three days. Rumor has it Tom Jones rang him that night for an autograph.
Grandad suffered too. Aunt Marge sold him miracle supplements for “gut cleansing and blood pressure.” He wound up on the news for a week, then in the weather report for a month—every time he stepped outside.
Her ideas never ended: handmade soap with nettle extract, sweets made of coriander and thistle, eel-leather wallets. She could praise her wares until a man reverted to crawling on all fours. When faith in God, science, and common sense failed, she’d offer a discount. And the victim yielded. We, as her “dearest friends,” suffered most—endless free samples.
Then, last month, Aunt Marge started making homemade cheese, delivering it in every state imaginable. Words couldn’t capture the stench. Our flat wouldn’t be fit for sale or rent for a decade—nor the whole building. Only Grandad rejoiced; no one made him wash socks anymore.
The cheese was peculiar. It shattered graters, exploded microwaves, and vanished in ovens. Sometimes it seemed to attack other fridge items, turning them into its kin.
Once, I tried it with pasta and ketchup. The result was enriched uranium. Now our family’s banned from leaving the country for seven years.
Mum urged patience. Aunt Marge swore the first batch was a fluke—the next would be “the bomb.” Hearing that, Grandad carried a hammer for a week, threatening to cut us from his will if any cheese touched his plate. Dad had it worse—he loved Mum more than life (his own fault)—so surrender was his only choice.
As for me, Aunt Marge declared modern children “walking periodic tables” who could eat chocolate wrappers and all. My blood, she claimed, was palm oil. Hers was pure—so she told Mum, dismissing Grandad’s Geiger counter’s frantic clicks. “That old thing’s rubbish!”
Then, the unexpected happened. The cheese wasn’t half bad. We took precautions—litres of digestive aid, strategic bathroom access—but the taste needed no help. It was creamy, subtly spiced, with a nutty finish. Mum made sandwiches, Dad tossed it in salad, and Grandad, lured by the smell, even took a bite.
Aunt Marge had won. For once, her promises held. Though she later confessed—only to Mum—that the cheese wasn’t hers. Her new husband, a chef, made it. She’d 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: saving the world from Aunt Marge’s schemes. If she fancied an idea, he’d execute it himself, letting her take credit. He even married her—likely out of duty to mankind.
Now, we watch their marriage closely. And pray, fervently, that it lasts.
