Before I moved to France… I’ll admit it, I only ever had two real choices when purchasing cheese: industrial-sized shredded or a plastic-flavoured brick that could have laid the foundations for the moon. I knew only that chalk and cheese were polar opposites, without being aware of the spectrum in between, or even that my familiar cheddar tended to textually represent the former rather than the latter. How all this has changed…

The variety and scope of cheese in France is mind-boggling, with a different cheese for each day to the year - or so I’m told in boasting banter. Even the harsh fluorescent supermarket lights take on a reverential glow when entering the cheese aisle. In a blatant contrast, it’s a struggle to locate a bottle of fresh milk. UHT is all the rage here, but this, I suspect, is not for the cited health reasons, but just to devote a respectful amount of refrigerated space to cheese, glorious cheese.

Yet I’ve thus far considered the local market or supermarket purchase of anything beyond emmental, for melting on baked dishes, as too daunting. I’ve dipped my toes into the curdled world so far only at weddings. Try as I might to save some room for the inevitable round of cheese and salad, by the time the clock strikes two and the evening winds on to the sixth course, the long day and rich foods have already taken their toll. Never mind, it’s amazing how a few lettuce leaves cleanse the palate.

My choice? Well still one for the uninitiated - a crowd-pleasing camembert and a wedge of soft goat’s milk chevre, a moist, spreadable cheese with a flavour as distinct as its texture. Old habits die hard, and I find myself glancing at the fat content before sinking my teeth into the silky-smooth camembert. 46%! And there’s still desert to come! Washing it hastily down with a gulp of red wine, as if it were an absolution for sin, I hope desperately that the so-called “French paradox” (eating all the worst for the best of health) applies to expats…