I HEAR MYSELF CREAK

Late last night I found myself on the street, freezing. It was deliberate. And that may have been an unwise move, as now I feel stiff in many joints. So it's rather a good thing that I am off work today and can take it easy.

At an ungodly dark hour I filled a pipe with tobacco, and smoked outside.
My apartment mate is a non-smoker, and the door to her room was ajar, so there would have been no hope of not causing her distress. And, of course, one does not open all the windows to air out a place during a frigid spell.

Years ago one could go to a late night donut shop and keep the bums at bay while smoking. Nowadays they are protected. Which is probably a good thing, because at three thirty in the morning one really does not seek conversation or even human contact.

Warmth would be nice, however.


Over in the British Isles they are presently chasing their smokers out into blizzards, to perish in snow drifts. Because one shall not smoke inside. Ever. Especially when there are children present. Or even in the same building or housing estate. Smokers are a bad influence.


"Come here, little girl, would you like some Samuel Gawith Best Brown Flake? The pressed Virginias give a sweet medium strength smoke, which proves very soothing on a night like this."


One of the other problems with this weather is that it makes the skin dry out. Imagine crusty old farts scratching themselves everywhere you look.
Dermal abrasion, flakes, spots of mange, and inflamed welts.
Fortunately I have lotion, and need not do so.
But "they" are jealous, I can tell.
Their red red eyes.


Please rub yourselves with oil.



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