Yesterday I bought some cheese, because I like cheese. This evening I thought I would eat some of the cheese I bought yesterday because, as previously noted, I like cheese. But soft! Where is the cheese?
Q: Is it in the fridge?
A: No. No, it is not.
Q: Is it, then, hiding under the biscuits in that carrier bag I brought all the way from Mr Sainsbury's House Of Toothy Comestibles to exotic Canuckistan?
A: No. No, it is not there either.
This leads me to conclude that the cheese, which I like, is in the other fridge. In the room I vacated this morning. In Smithers. 600 kilometres away.
Feck and, moreover, Arse!