I have a new vocation. Cheese dealer. I have just ordered 75 kilos of Comté cheese which I will be picking up on a motorway exit on Sunday night from my supplier. I will then bring the cheese home, weigh it, cut it, wrap it in neat triangular packages and sell it to the local cheese zombies, the Ardèche space cadets – all of whom are my close friends, so they can count on me to be pushing only the best stuff. I’m what they call a thoroughbred. A high class cheese dealer. I am at the moment filing their cheques and counting the banknotes which I have collected over the past two weeks. I won’t be making any money on this deal – it’s purely for the love of cheese. On Monday I shall do my delivery round and by the evening everyone will be totally cheese blitzed. Totally off their faces, with little salty cheese crumbs around their mouths. I’m feeling pretty out of it just thinking about 75 kilos of the stuff. Or is that just 14 months of sleep deprivation combined with an extreme coffee/chilli pepper habit? Whatever. In France do as the French do. So I’m dealing cheese. And yes, I have used the word cheese an inordinate number of times in this post. Well, we are talking about SEVENTY FIVE KILOS of cheese. Of cheese! Cheese cheese cheese cheese cheese cheese CHEESE CHEESE CHEESE.