For the past three days I indulged(!) my degenerate side while at work.
Which should shock you, yes, because I am a very depraved man.
I would not allow myself near my own children, if I had any.
I smoked numerous bowls of an Aromatic: McClelland's Deep Hollow.
Described as predominantly Red Virginia, some black, and a touch of flavouring. For me, that counts as revolting perversion.
Fresh apples, with a whisper of caramel.
And a mere hint of vanilla.
Disgraceful.
It was good. The tin has been opened for several months, and the tobacco within has lost the hint of vinegar imparted by the bacteria native to Kansas city; it is now a very enjoyable change of pace.
I also swilled enough tea to float a battle ship, and spent much time in the cigar room, where it was cold enough to freeze your tits off. Someone has to do it, and as a man I do not have tits (if I did, my sweaters would look more taught than rumply; you may rejoice that I don't have tits), and my handwriting is legible, which means that I get detailed for accurate lists.
During brief moments back outside, folks were overjoyed to see me.
Which is surprising, flattering, and disturbing.
Me and a pipe for company, up on a ladder with a clipboard.
Freezing my non-existent tits off.
I suspect that during my absence -- the next two days are my weekend, and I shall behave riotously (in a restrained manner) -- no further work in there will be done.
Two colleagues left for Honduras over the weekend, on a cigar related trip. They will be visiting a stogey factory out in the hinterlands, under armed escort because Honduras is a pretty "gnarly" place.
This week we're a skeleton crew.
With three staff members on duty, nearly four times more work gets done than with only two. This is a peculiar mathematical fact.
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