I have loved melted cheese ever since I can remember. And I can remember Sunday night toasted cheese suppers from about the age of 5. So you can imagine that when my Swiss-dwelling cousin introduced me to "Raclette" in adult life, my love affair with melted cheese intensified. When The Husband, my cousin, her husband and I, were rolling around on the couches in their Zurich apartment, clutching our stomachs and going, "we're never eating cheese again!", I knew I had to play along. Secretly, though, I was plotting ways to purchase my very own Raclette machine to import into SA.
For those of you who haven't yet had the pleasure of experiencing a Raclette affair, it is this: an electric contraption placed in the middle of the dining room table where everyone gets their own mini cheese pan. A piece of Raclette cheese gets placed on the pan and the pan gets placed on this central contraption. The contraption then heats and melts each individual diner's piece of cheese. And the feast begins.
Two giant blocks of Raclette have been sitting in my freezer since my visit to Switzerland in February and I decided it was high time to bust them out. So on Friday, I invited 8 friends around and together we made like the Swiss, melted our little bits of cheese and then rolled around on our living room couches, clutching our stomachs, vowing never to eat cheese again. It was wonderful.
Until the next morning, when I felt as though there was a large rock lodged in my stomach. The Husband, who is mildly lactose intolerant and who has not broken his initial vow of never again consuming Raclette, was smugness personified. To prove a point – to prove that I could dislodge the giant block of cheese in my stomach – I looked at him haughtily and climbed into my gym clothes. I was going to move my cheese.
And move it, I did. I moved it up and down and side to side during my step class. I could almost feel it bashing against my organs every time I climbed on and off the step. I drove home feeling as though I had punished myself sufficiently, with slight nausea as well as a major stitch.
Then, driving up Corlett Drive, I spied something which made me laugh so much, I forgot about the Raclette rock I'd ingested. Take a look at this classic dustbin ad:
Now, this picture begs the question: is that Pedro the Plumber himself sitting on the bog, giving an almighty heave to combat high prices? I guess it would make the advert that much more authentic. But imagine if that self-same sideburn-wearing individual rocked up at your door to clean your pipes? Although, I think that anyone who responds to this ad, deserves to encounter Pedro in the flesh. Well, hopefully not showing AS much flesh, that is.
I wonder if he test drives your toilet after unblocking it? Judging from the determined look on his face, he sure can move a bowel or two.