Blue Cheese
“Eww! What is that?!” 5-year-old Elsie screeched. “What?” her Dad responded. Bald, slightly rotund, he stooped low to see the world from her eye level. “That! Is it a bug?” she pointed a short, messily painted pink fingernail, curling her lip in disgust. The lip curling was so Carol, he thought, mesmerised for a moment, before the familiar punch echoed in his windpipe again. He shook his head, willing the memories to leave, and inspected the direction of Elsie’s pointing. “Oh! It looks like a little bit of blue cheese has fallen out of the fridge. Not a bug, just cheese.” Elsie stared at him incredulously, mouth agape. “That’s not cheese.” She said flatly, as if addressing a much younger child. Her arms folded tightly across her chest as if to emphasise the point. “Mate, it is.” He chuckled. “I like blue cheese. Do you want to try some? Not that one on the floor, obviously.” He opened the fridge door and pulled forward the drawer which held his treasure. He unwrapped ...