I am currently holidaying in the South of France, and am forcing myself out for a 4-5 mile run every day, regardless of what time I passed out after drinking vats of cheap Rosé and chuffing my way through packs of slashed-price fags. Where there’s a will there’s a way – as I keep reminding myself – and I’ve done myself proud by slinging on my trainers and hauling my sorry carcass out of the sack to pound the local cobbly streets in sleepy Arles, holding my sore head up high, ignoring the quizzical looks of the locals.
But it’s not the copious amounts of booze and fags that I have willingly stuffed into my body over the last week that concerns me – it’s the cheese. Yes, the cheese. How can one not scoff away the delightful selection of fromages on offer whilst in France? It would be like going to Tuscany and refusing to eat any of the fresh local pasta – getting busted nibbling on a rice cake would get you a slap in the face. An unforgiveable crime. So the pay off is, I run to eat cheese. And it’s worth every painful step… so let’s chink our glasses of Rosé (not more Rosé, please…) and toast the lardy, fat-arsed joy that is French gooey cheese. Hoorah!