REPREHENSIBLE TENDENCIES REVEALED
I am not a pudgy middle-aged gentleman.
And have no interest in sports.
Sunday would have been a good day to go shopping, but I am not a pudgy middle-aged woman either.
People like me are caught somewhere in between, inhabiting a grey no-mans-land of non-pudginess, far from sports or fancy shoes. Neither ESP nor QVC cater to our type, as there is no money to be made.
Somewhere on this planet, there might be a channel that aims its valuable added content directly at us, but it sure isn't here.
['Here' being the urban San Francisco Bay Area, twixt Novato and Palo Alto, on the civilized side of the Willie Brown Bridge, far from trailer parks and Berkeley.]
Imagine, if you will, the television programme that we would watch.
"Join us now, as misses Ephaedra and Imogene Bucquet-Brainly enact the Fat Woman scene from The Importance of Being Earnest, whilst smoking a Comoy Blue Riband filled with thirty-five year-old Balkan Sobranie and a Dunhill Root Briar circa 1951's with Sullivan Powell (G's.M.) respectively.
Both pipes were formerly part of the collection of Reverend Doctor (D.D.) Otis Pudnatick, rector at Saint Biblius."
The lovely pipe-smoking thespian sisters performed at the annual ball of the West-Rutland County Tobaccianists and Morris Dancers, last held at the Uppingham Millers Social Hall seven years ago. As there is no train service anymore to Uppingham, celebrants trekked by bus and lorry from Oakham, Corby, Leicester, Peterborough and Stamford.
A sumptuous dinner was served.
Uppingham, not far from Oakham, lies in the Midlands, a largely rural area to the North of London. The last garage and tobacco shop closed in 1964.
One of the local crafts of particular note is horse-shoe smithing.
There is a tea-lounge on Main Street.
No, that will never be on televison, and I probably wouldn't even watch it if it were. But I would alert fellow members of our local pipe club, and request that at least one person Tivo it (see, I am technologically aware after all!), to be played when next all of us convivially gather at The Hall of the Fat Wooden Dwarf, which is slightly east of Pickleweed.
The monthly meeting of our group.
That might not be an evening that I would be present for.
Nor an entertainment to which I'd take a date.
Even if she were a pipe smoker.
Or wished to be.
Yes, there are women pipe smokers. Not a single one has joined the local fraternity since the willowy Chinese lady departed two years ago, more's the pity, and I don't know how the members would react if one did.
Some might resolve to leave their wives, initially. Or panic.
They didn't do that when the willowy Chinese lady was a member, because she was already happily married (to a pipe smoker), and from New Zealand, so we could barely understand her.
[If you are curious about New Zealand accents, watch the Lord of the Rings movies; Orcs talk like that. It's quite unintelligible.]
But my point is that when sports are on, anywhere far from cigar smokers (the aforementioned "pudgy middle-aged gentlemen") and sports bars is remarkably peaceful. Especially during Autumn.
I used to be in the city on those days.
Wandering around Nob and Russian Hill with a lit pipe in my mouth was a blessing. Empty streets, except for the rare stray raccoon or child, balmy Fall temperature, the loamy earth air rendered damp and smelly from the fog the previous evening .....
Nothing but badgers.
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Labels: Pipe Club