Since your affair with Short Armed Charlotte from Human Resources things have been strained at home. You didn’t mean any harm but your wife is far from amused. What you needed was a grand gesture to win her back. The Quality Street hadn’t worked, nor had the trip to the British Grand Prix. This required more than an afternoon in the pits. “Let’s move to Wales and become organic farmers!” you blurt. Three days’ silence followed, then another two, then finally, “OK”.
Ten weeks later you’ve signed off, sold up, shipped out and bought a disused farm in north Wales. “I love it here,” you say. “It’s so organic.” “No it’s not,” she replies. “The only thing organic about this farm is the milk we bought from Spar. We need a game plan.” “We don’t need a game plan,” you explain. “We just need some organic sheep!” Then you remember your wife’s vegetarianism. “For the wool and the milk, you understand.” You rack your brains. “We could make Roquefort from the milk!” you suggest, excitedly. “Roquefort is my favourite cheese! When it comes to organic French cheese, this is our chance to truly put Wales on map.”
Come the spring you have produced your first twenty packs of Welsh Roquefort. You call your mum. “Well done dear,” she says. “I always knew you’d end up in cheese.” Keen to test it on a stranger you stroll up to the neighbouring farm and introduce yourself. “Pleasure to meet you,” says the farmer in a plummy accent. “You should have popped up before. Don’t I recognise you? I’m sure our paths crossed at J.P. Morgan. Given it all up to move to country, eh? Good man. We did the same after my wife caught me out with the secretary. Totally revitalised things. Snifter?” You sip your whiskey and notice a large crate in the corner. “Can you believe,” says the man, lowering his voice, “that we are the largest organic Roquefort producer in the world?” You smile, drink up and leave.