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Don't become a cheesemaker, they said. You'll smell all weird and nobody will want to be around you, they said. They keep unsociable hours, they said. And, they said, they have to wear those weird white coats and hats. what are those. Those hats. Why hats. Why.
I couldn't deny my destiny, though; ever since I was a little lad, I'd loved cheese more than Wallace and Gromit combined. I'd loved cheeses of all kinds, from the mighty Cheddar to the sublime Yarg. From Limburger to Feta, there wasn't a cheese I didn't like, a fermented curd I didn't enjoy; be they hard enough to crack teeth or soft enough to practically slurp, I loved cheese.
Of course, not everyone shared my passion for the curds and whey of life; the lactose intolerant were also me-intolerant, and the dairy-free were free of me. Reduced fat? I didn't want that. Not for me the skinny, the healthy, the diet-conscious; I liked my women like my cheese, full of fat and delicious on crackers.
So it had been my calling to open up a cheese shop; the National Cheese Emporium, finest in the district. Of course, the fact that I was in an area not really known for being cheese-fanciers didn't deter me. I imported and exported and created and waited.
Waited for the brie-lliant girl who'd be gouda for me, who'd be feta than me and way out of my league, who'd caerphilly love me all my life; who'd like to put a stilton and say 'edam it, let's do whatever'.
But who'd love a cheesemaker? Who? Who?
I have no excuses. I started off at Monty Python, and ended up with bad puns.
Uh. I think a plot could be made, but you might have to think outside the box on this one.
Yep.
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
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