TANGY WITH A FAINT HINT OF SWEAT

When I got up at three for a necessary visit to the loo (which is not age specific, I realize, as many people of all ages do that all the time in the dark), I caught a glimpse of the cat sitting in my favourite chair in the teevee room leaning over and sniffing the pipe I had smoked after a late lunch yesterday. The cat doesn't exist, being only a figment of my dream state. But the pipe does. A bent bulldog sandblasted Baronet from GBD, so not one of the older pieces. It's a very touchy-feely object. Perhaps the dream-cat likes the faint hint of red Virginias adhering to it, since it cannot possibly recall the meaty bits of the meal that preceded the smoke.
And cats aren't into the touchy-feely phenomenon the same way as humans.

A human will walk through a museum gazing at the displays thinking to him or herself "the Sumerians were indeed fascinating ooh there's a rotund statuette when's lunch did they have hambergers in Mesopotamia perhaps not, and no ketchup", whereas the cat will wander past the artifacts with a strong temptation to knock everything over because it irritates him and there are no mice.

Humans do not lament the absence of rodents.
We're quite peculiar that way.

I am still upset that there is no mouse-flavoured canned catfood.
It seems like such a natural and logical development!
Cat food companies must be stupid.

When I later got back from the loo I was more awake, and the figmentary beast was gone. Nothing had been pushed onto the floor, which proves either that he's a ghost, or extremely well-behaved. The pipe was still there, on top a stack of books which I really should revisit, despite that being a convenient place for a small tea-tree and a cup of coffee when I'm plonking on the computer.


There is a tall Dunhill humidor near it, which would hold up to forty cigars if it didn't smell of lavender inside. The wife of the previous owner had at one point probably thought to herself that rather than smokables it was the ideal place for those expensive bars of soap brought back from the south of France. Her husband, being a sensible sort one imagines, did not feel inclined to fight her insanity. After all, it had made her marry him. Or something like that.
A lovely wooden box. Lavender fragrance. Un savon extraordinaire.

I acquired it second-hand, despite the weird smell.
Because it's pretty and I'm a packrat.
And I like boxes.


When I got up for real this morning, after fixing myself some coffee I sniffed the bowl of the pipe before doomscrolling. Mmm, delightful. Perhaps I'll fill it again tomorrow.



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