HEAD SOUTH TILL YOU'RE SAFE

Imagine that it's the end of a long day. And that you are taking the bus from Marin back to civilization. What you really want to do is light up a pipe and stroll through the industrial area for a while, relaxing, perhaps thinking about tea or a cocktail at the end of your walk. But you realize that as a petite miss it would look odd, and unfortunately you do not have a pipe.

Plus, this being California, children and little old ladies would be triggered.
And rear up full Karen, squawking in outrage.
Especially the white ones.


If I knew her, and thought it appropriate, I would offer her a pipe. Not a cocktail, because that would be suspicious -- especially given the disparity of our ages -- but I am sure that even in Marin, probably somewhere in Sausalito, there is a place where one can get a nice pot of tea and some biscuits. Which would be just the ticket. I'll have to look that up on the internet.

She has very nice hands. From my seat I can see them holding her cellphone and scrolling through her messages. When she's not talking to the woman next to her.

Yeah, no, not going to break the ice. I qualify as an older man, and it would consequently be way too skeevy. But I can imagine her holding a pipe while reading a book.
Perhaps enjoying a queer old-fashioned tobacco.

Do people still read books these days?


Earlier today I had been remembering Thomas Y., one of the last people in Marin to smoke Erinmore Flake. He was a survivor of internment at Stanley Fort during the war. He passed a few years ago. My coworker mentions that whenever she drives past his house, she can see that his garden is reverting to jungle, it used to be so lovely, and the Jaguar in the driveway is covered with dirt, dust, and leaves. The other smoker of Erinmore I saw regularly is probably gone also. He was crusty and could barely walk the last time I saw him.

That was mostly prompted by my first pipe at work this morning.

A Peterson 69, which is the favourite shape of one of my Facebook friends, who has several in different finishes, and has boldly admitted to smoking and enjoying Erinmore. Of which, by the way, there is an open tin near the chair where I am sitting presently. One of the familiar rectangular enamel tins from two decades ago. For the last several years it has only been available in European regulation round tins, with paper labels.

The best thing about working several days is that final bus ride back to civilization, after which I'm off for a long "weekend". Real food, and no snooty suburban dingos.
Plus books, and cups of Hong Kong Milk Tea.



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