SLOW MOVING AND INCLEMENT

At this point it looks like the most romantic thing I'll do today is seek shelter under an awning in Chinatown after lunch with my pipe. The lovestarved masses are of course free to join me. I expect that that will be probably at most two or three people of delicate and refined sensibilities desperate to inch away from the horrid tobacco smell.
While nevertheless maintaining a decent dryness.

I shall fondly imagine their velvety skin crawling.
There's a proximity of smoke, eek!
And slurping bubble tea.

As no doubt you realize, I am an extremely romantic man. I eat chocolates regularly. And furthermore I rarely resist the urge to pet cats. I utter the magic words "pss, pss, pss!"
As well as "c'mere you little rascal".

Years ago I told someone that "nothing says Valentine's Day like cigars".
I never saw her again since that time. Surprising.

My favourite fictional detective was a pipe smoker. A thoughtful man, who often had lunch at a Parisian brasserie when he didn't make it home. One remembers oysters, or skate in black butter. Lobster. Ham sandwich.

My lunch today will probably be a Hong Kong club sandwich, fries, and a cup of milk tea. Suitably fortified for braving the weather, I shall seek out a nearby closed storefront while contemplating the greyness.

Maigret (the detective) would approve. Though, as a typical Northern European of somewhat "Burgundian" tastes, he would have washed lunch down with a chilled beer, followed perhaps by strong coffee to refortify the senses. I have no idea what tobacco he smoked. Immaterial in any case, as common continental tobacco blends were altogether ghastly for a long time. His author, Simenon, liked Dunhill's Royal Yacht, but is known to have smoked Granger while in the United States. Neither of which I favour. My tobacco today will most likely be Cornell & Diehl's most recent version of Anthology, a remarkable romantic tobacco. Soft, sweet, with a delicate tin fragrance between fresh hay and over-ripe stone fruits. Will age well.

[Burgundian, in this case, means rather Brabantish. Simenon was Belgian, and hence tended toward a more northern over-indulgence. Belgians, as is well-known, have real beer. Unlike Americans who drink inferior chemicalized slop.]

Grocery shopping. Tea and an egg tart. Then another pipe.


As I understand it, most Americans will be blowing a fortune on chocolates, roses, and dinner at a small romantic and extremely high priced restaurant, as well as pink teddy bears. Possibly even proposing! Tomorrow, unsold bon bons will be on sale.
Save time and money; buy them then for next year.

I used to work part-time at a restaurant.
Holidays were always ghastly.
Bah humbug.



Nothing says Valentine's Day like fine flake tobacco.
And a Dunhill shellbriar pipe. To be sure.
Trust me. I'm an expert.
Romantic.



Two pipes. Post lunch. After tea.
A shellbriar. A bruyere.
For balance.



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