If neighbours find my corpse...

For the past few weeks, every time I've opened the fridge the first thing I've seen has been a wheel of camembert leering at me, taunting me and calling me a complete and utter coward.

Which is precisely what I am. Some time back, I spent a weekend doing an intensive course learning how to make 8 different varieties of cheese.

Technically, the camembert was fully ripened several weeks ago and ready to eat. Raoul (for such is his name) is now magically white and fluffy-mouldy on the outside, and smells just like he ought to. But I've been finding excuses not to give it a try, because I have no faith whatsoever in my cheese-making skills and expect to die of listeria or some suitably obscure cheese bacteria groobly thingy.

Today, I summoned the courage and had a face-off with the camembert.

So if this is the last entry to appear in my journal, would somebody please call the police or notify my family, because it means the cheese won. And in a week's time the neighbours will start to complain about an odd smell coming from my house.

And that just ain't going to be pretty.