In 1987, a new thing arrived on the shelves of Asda in Preston. Goat's cheese. We had seen this on the Food and Drink programme, and because my mum had a new job, It was time for us to ascend to the ranks of the middle class. So we bought some.
One lunch time, it was presented, surrounded by a golden crescent of Jacob's Cream Crackers, on an English Rose plate. We crowded round the table, and the dog sat just as expectantly by my Mum's side. We gave it a smell and were not amused. There were looks of uncertainty. But my Dad showed us the way and bravely, with forced relish, ate a piece. We all followed, and could hardly believe that people put this stuff in their mouths. There were a few swears.
Now we had a block of the stuff, staring us down, humming and steaming. Fortunately, we had the answer. We threw a chunk to the dog, who yelped excitedly, ran over, and gave it a fulsome, anticipatory sniff.
He paused, confused, and then rolled in it, legs in the air, tongue hanging out. That said it all.
