SMELLS LIKE GRANDPA

Normally Wednesdays are rather enjoyable. Lunch at a favourite C'town haunt, smoke a pipe afterwards, shop for groceries including some fresh fruit or vegetables for the elderly Chinese Indonesian woman downstairs (basically checking that all is well with her without prying, and make sure she gets her vitamins), tea and a small snack at a bakery, while conversing with some deaf old coots, then a stroll down to the bus stop while smoking another pipeful.
Except that today it will be too warm for comfort.

Teatime will be the hottest period.

No matter what, I'll be overdressed. Normal white people will be waltzing around with their midriffs or chests bare, wearing Aussie style shorts or diaphanous garments better suited to sleazy nightclubs or the harem of a degenerate financier, this blogger will be dressed decently and thinking of cooling showers or sumpin'.

And I might be grumpy.


One of the deaf old coots will be wearing far too much. He will end up being immensely uncomfortable, all bundled up in gear more appropriate in the arctic or the outer Richmond District, and I expect he'll have something to say about all the other people on public transit today, what with being around ninety years old, stubborn, and opinionated. And wearing four or five layers of clothing, which won't improve his mood. I may get out of the house early and get everything done well before teatime, because conversation at the bakery might be on a distant planet. Deafness, strong opinions, and a whole bunch of grumps. Um.

Get home early, take a shower, then stumble around languorously in my underwear. Perhaps a glass of weak cold tea with some citrus, to stay hydrated. Try to avoid sweating. Doomscroll.


The pipe pictured above is an old Stanwell I restored years ago, which I think may have been made in the eighties or nineties. It's a pretty good smoker, rather elegant.
Looks wrigglesome.

No, I have never smoked Hobbit's Weed in it. One quarter Danish vanilla, one quarter cherry, half black vanilla cavendish. Beloved by men with tattoos and piercings living in their mom's basement who play role-playing games with themselves.

Spare and reserved old fashioned Virginia mixtures with a touch of Perique.
Nothing soaked in perfume or smelling like a bath house.
We are civilized. Not effete.
Damned hippies.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================