I had planned to review a new cheese I procured last week, but it seems that life and lethargy intervened. This morning I had to undergo a draining battery of tests required for my immigration status in this country. When I say I had to, I mean myself and 150 of my closest colleagues. Then I voluntarily drove to a place called the Industrial Area, which is also known as the seventh ring of hell, to pay a visit to my mechanic. The thing is, you don’t so much own a Jaguar, rather you live uneasily with it, like a bad, cheating boyfriend. You know the one, he spends all…