Sunday, 20 January 2008
You can smoke in hell
I've spent the past forty-two hours with an emissary from the Mother Country, and for the past forty hours - since a quick puff after dinner on Friday night - the emissary has been eschewing the demon cheroot. This may have been my fault. I think I said something off-hand about carotid arteries. But, I swear, apart from peering schoolmarmishly over my clean-living spectacles, that was all. By lunchtime today, I was offering her a dusting of snuff with her iced chocolate.
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18 comments:
One must be kind to mad puffers as one is to mad duffers. I spent several minutes in the rain today on the urging of one.
I have no problems in indulging in the insanities of others. Or even in partaking of them.
I love a smoke in the rain: to hell with everything.
Thanks, rh. Your comment reminds me of one of my friar-in-law's favourite maxims: "you can smoke in hell", but probably not in heaven, or on public transport. So, post title amended accordingly.
Nails, you're right. It's not always clear to me what kindness entails, but.
Gladstone, famously, recommended that we eschew our food forty times before swallowing it. Now if you can swallow that proverb, you can swallow anything!
Not sure about carotids, but there was a fellow on the train this morning eschewing on a carrot. I've no idea where that particular vegetable issued from.
Well, I kind of view them as a species on the verge of extinction who, er, can't get no satisfaction anywhere these days and so I aid and abet them as I would any other critter in their situation. I also try to encourage them to breed so that they will not die out altogether.
My sense of morality might be somewha lacking though...
You can smoke in heaven, hell is full of non-smokers: the proud and the pompous; lattes who'd tell others how to live.
I've never had a latte tell me anything. I really must change baristas.
It's like tea leaves for the discerning caffeinator. Look closely at the froth.
Oh dear me, no! I have enough frothy conversations as is.
Lattes can speak alright. "Misogynist," they say. "Racist! Homophobe! Unfashionable Pig!"
Goodness me, what language.
This barista must be some sort of pimp.
Well I have four sugars with mine, that seems to shut it up.
I've certainly never had a beverage of any kind comment or my sartorial sense, or lack thereof. Maybe you should see someone about the little problem you have with drink, R.H.?
Miss Brownie has the drink problem, not me. Talking wine casks, that's the problem. She can't stack empties in the corner anymore, terrible hullaballo, gets her yelling all night.
Is Miss Brownie your special friend that no-one else can see, R.H.? Otherwise, I am at a loss to know who you might be talking about.
She is also Miss Dysthymiac, Miss Higlass, Miss Bwaca, and so on: more pseudonyms than the CIA.
All right? Now leave me alone. I can't be up all night arguing with a nail painter like you!
-Robert!
Waldorf Astoria. New York.
And she is MISS SWILL!
No joke.
OKAY?
ROBBERT!!!
Australian Bankers Association!
Anne o'dyne...
Miss Crystal...
Golly.
Well she was married seven times.
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