CONSIDERABLE DISTORTION

One of the problems waking up is that the brain does so at a slower pace than some of the other parts of the body (the bladder, for instance), and consequently the subconscious has a feast. There you are, on the front steps, most of the flesh husk having become functional, and out of the corners of your eyes you note an animal standing stock still, observing you thoughtfully lighting the first pipe of the day after the bathroom visit, first cup of coffee, throwing on some clothes, and filling a briar.

It's bad enough being visited by the ghost cat who used to live in your apartment. You did not know he had a friend. A big friend. A big furry friend who likes honey.

You despise tobaccos flavoured with honey.
That's a bad part of the 1950s.
Very common then.


Those old fancy magazines for men would have advertisements every second or third page showing a crisply dressed modern man with perfectly brilliantined hair, an ironed shirt under a houndstooth sports jacket, and polished shoes, smiling as they lit up a full bowl of 'Ace Pilot's Heather Honey Extra-vaganza' on the porch of their ranch up in the Sierras.
Ah, nature! The smell of the forest! Wildlife!

Through the windows of their dwelling you can see their trim wife with an apron frying-up some rashers in the skillet of their modern kitchen, and the children on the oval rug in the living room playing with a red toy truck as they scream when a wild bear casually ambles through entranced by the smells.

Life nowadays is never like that. For one thing, I do not smoke sickening aromatic shite, and for another, it's been years since I wore a tie. Also, there is no trim wife and there are no children, oval rug, or toy trucks.

Not that I'm complaining, mind you. But I do wish that the imaginary bear would not look so disappointed at the fragrance of the Fribourg & Treyer Virginia flake that I've stuffed into my Peterson straight grain bent bulldog shape 80S. A delightfully old-fashioned tobacco in a pipe that recalls sunlit days in the 1960s just after we tested the very latest in nuclear bombs out at Yucca Flats. Made in the Republic of Ireland, hallmarked silver band, and totally piss-elegant. Not for you, bear. And there's no honey tobacco anywhere on my person.


It was a nice early morning walk. Despite the thick fog yesterday evening, it was sunny. The mists had not lingered, and the south side of the street had been cleaned. When I got back my apartment mate had already left for work, and the prospect of a few days lazing about (after doing the necessary laundry) lies ahead.



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