Sunday, November 06, 2022


Eight years ago I mentioned in a post about something else that I was floozy-free. More specifically, in four years of being a bachelor again I had not brought home a single floozy. You will no doubt be pleased to know, because it makes your own life more exciting by comparison, that the intervening years have also been without the benefit of floozies.
There are entirely no floozies in my life.
But there's a Digby.

A friend came in during the afternoon today and handed me two disreputable looking tobacco pipes, jokingly wondering I could do anything with them. Well, one of them is now in the row of smoking disasters we keep around for educational purposes (see, son, this is your brain, and this one is your brain if you smoke aromatics), and I cleaned up the other one.
Might keep it as my dedicated aromatic pipe.

It's a Digby. A second, with numerous fills, manufactured by GBD over a generation ago, as an economical intro to decent smoking equipment. On the shank it says 'London, England', but I bet that actually means 'jungle territory, Central France'. Cleaned and smoothed the rim, reamed bowl of excess carbon, buffed the stem shiny black. It now looks like the kind of pipe a salt of the earth type might accidentally leave at a fish and chip shop, when going through his pockets to find the tin of Three Nuns he had purchased a few hours ago turns up zilch.
In distraction he hastens back to the pub where he's sure he left it ... leaving the walnut stained smooth finish briar which he put aside while searching for his flake behind.

Fortunately, everyone knows him there. At either place.

And the local teenagers are remarkably honest.

Obviously not the modern lot.

See, you can understand why I'm going to keep it. I have to. It speaks to me.

It was a kinder, gentler age. There were no floozies then either. I think floozies are totally mythological. Possibly a cautionary fiction invented by men of the cloth.

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