THE MISSING PETRI DISH

Got out of the house late yesterday, after making myself some salt fish and egg fried rice with grilled sausages and two kinds of hot sauce. Basically, breakfast closer to dinner time.
So I ended up having a postmeal pipesmoke at dusk, when it gets colder. I had unwisely stepped out wearing a shirt too thin for the conditions. And decided to just suck it up.

The sanctity of the ritual outranks the need to be comfortable.
Yeah, okay, that's just weird. Crazy stupid stubborness.
If I die of pneumonia I'll have myself to blame.


Unlikely, given that it's merely early Autumn, late October. Which in San Francisco is actually pleasant weather. And I do own a functional coat. Which has capacious pockets suitable for holding pipe and tobacco. As well as two teabags because you never know when you might require a restorative hot cup.

Two pipes. In case a woman politely asks to join me.
Two teabags. Similar, but also planning ahead.
Sometimes a man needs another cup.
I'm actually a boyscout.

Actually, that's really why I have two briar pipes with me, because the chances of meeting a woman who indeed does want to smoke a pipe and isn't a tattooed free spirit with issues is remarkably slim. Non-existent, really. Two pipes gives me a choice, even though I've usually already decided which one I'll smoke before I leave the house. I just like having a suitable second to match. Neurosis.

I'm not socially adept enough to strike up conversations when I'm outside smoking my pipe. Not used to the idea. And I'm okay with that, comfortable with what I am. Also, a woman would in any case have her own smoking equipment. Her tastes, her preferences, her favourite shapes and brands.

Or maybe she prefers refined cigarettes from overseas, and has a steady supplier of same, because they're usually no longer legally available in the United States. Something slim and elegant. Something that one could let burn down in the ashtray while deeply involved in a textual ellucidation of something rather interesting.


It's a concept. I should write a science mystery with a protagonista exactly like that. A laboratory in a picturesque English village where most of the natives are pretentious eccentrics or blinkerdly ignorant snobs, and not good conversational company at all.
With a tea-shoppe with mediocre pastries, dried cucumber sandwiches.
And really cheap tea, clearly not Taylors of Harrowgate.




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