lunch, he said we could have biscuits, cold meat, bread and butter, and jam — but no cheese.
Cheese, like oil, makes too much of itself. It wants the whole boat to itself. It goes through the hamper, and gives a cheesy flavour to everything else there. You can‘t tell whether you are eating apple pie or German sausage, or strawberries and cream. It all seems cheese. There is too much odour about cheese.
I remember a friend of mine buying a couple of cheeses at Liverpool. Splendid cheeses they were, ripe and mellow, and with a two hundred horse-power scent about them that might have been warranted to carry three miles, and knock a man over at two hundred yards.
I was in Liverpool at the time, and my friend said that if I didn‘t mind he would get me to take them back with me to London, as he should not be coming up for a day or two himself, and he did not think the cheeses ought to be kept much longer.
„Oh, with pleasure, dear boy“, I replied, „with pleasure“.
I called for the cheeses, and took them away in a cab. It was a ramshackle affair, dragged along by a knockkneed, broken-winded somnambulist, which his owner, in a moment of enthusiasm, during conversation, referred to as a horse. I put the cheeses on the top, and we started off at a shamble that would have done credit to the swiftest steam-roller ever built, and all went merry as a funeral bell, until we turned the corner.
Strona:Jerome K. Jerome - Trzej ludzie w jednej łodzi.djvu/52
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