WHEN FOOLS RUSH OUT

A gentleman of my acquaintance likes a game of tennis at the grim crack of dawn. Which presumes that there is at least one other person like that. And in the same part of the world too. Traveling distance. Which, to me, is astounding. At that hour I like a strong cup of coffee followed by an amble around the neighborhood with a briar pipe filled with soft tobacco jutting out of my face. Which is, please understand, NOT because I particularly like to take walks, but because my apartment mate is a nonsmoker and I am reasonably considerate.

I told my doctor a few years ago that I was walking a lot more.

At which news his face lit up.

With my pipe, smoking.

His face lit down.


At work I am considerably less considerate than when I'm off. I spent twenty minutes reading about a pipe tobacco blend with a view toward purchasing it for the purpose of irritating a coworker who hates all aromatic pipe tobaccos, before finally deciding that it was too rich and artificial even for me. One or two bowls to piss off Hecky, and then I'd be stuck with around forty five grammes of a product that I would look at occasionally with trepidation, wondering when I'd ever finish the tin.

So no, I probably will not buy it. But I know where to find it if I change my mind. Vanilla, honey, nuts. And a touch of caramel. Some smokers wives love the room note, some find it repulsive, and the smokers themselves have described it as "heavenly", "mild", "enjoyable", "old-fashioned", "what a tobacco is supposed to be", and "nasty and utterly nauseating".

I particularly dislike honey as a tobacco flavouring.

Shan't mention the name. Some people like it.
Don't want to insult them needlessly.
I'll find a better reason.


Tennis when it's barely light outside. Good lord.
What a horrible instance of self-torture.
Some people, you know.



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