NewNewWork™ have put a sofa in the kitchen. A leather sofa, and an accompanying leather armchair. Both are rather comfortable, but have changed the atmosphere in the room somewhat.

I am used to having conversations in the kitchen with whomever is about. Usual chitchat and rantings. Usual trollings (aimed at me) from those HighHighUp. (Why they consider me some ranting paranoiac nutjob is beyond my ken.)

But the sofa has changed it all. We go to grab our coffees and teas, and sit on the smooth black leather. (It is a three-seater, so obviously you only get two blokes on it.) As soon as we first planted ourselves down, we found ourselves discussing Heidegger, Cicero, Zeno and Russell. At that point it was probably irony, a joke. But later in the day, we sat down again, and discuessed Kuhn, Hobbes, Wittgenstein and Sartre. Not ironically. This morning, we took up our now traditional places and argued the merits of Nietzsche, Popper, Montesquieu and Epicurus. (And if you think I am going to take the time to link those, you would be wrong.)

I did feel the need to clutch a pipe, but Cassandra has not yet consented to my demand for one. (Heh, disobey this command. Never think I don’t know what I am saying. It is all so very deliberate.) Although the smoke detector in the kitchen may have something to say about my tobacco burning. As would the Health And Safety nannying busy-bodies.

So Cassandra was wondering the other eve as to why I don’t get bothered by the smell, or vicinity, of smoke and smokers. A night on the tiles enveloped in the tar-infused haze never annoyed me. (And not that I just thought it part of the deal, as in those days it was.) I also grew up in a non-smoking household. I obviously tried smoking as a kid, but it never appealed. Quite the opposite. Did I feel any peer pressure to continue? None at all. I always told them it was a horrible tasting, vile experience. Why would I do it? Oh, to be one of the gang? Bugger that, I only will fit in in my way, not theirs. So I never took it up. Yeah, yeah, always been a rebel. Even rebelling against the rebels.

And I may have pondered upon a solution. I grew up within smelling distance of Gallaher’s Lisnafillon plant. And some mornings the smell was so strong it stretched its aroma for miles. Always reminded me of Raspberry Ruffles. But that was just me. So perhaps this pervasion of tobacco-y incense during my formative years is the reason I am more-or-less immune to those smoking around me.

Ah, the nonsense I have in my head put to good use. Sedition, paranoia, memories and philosophy. What I got in my head you can’t beg, steal or borrow.

  1. I hate living with the smell of smoke (I had an ex who smoked constantly) but i quite like smoke as part of the going to the pub/club experiance. I amnot convinced the smoking ban is the right thing, not in pubs that are over 18’s only and nightclubs. I agree that you don’t want it where you have kiddies or meals.
    Get the Pipe, a big curly sherlock holmes one.

    Sat 02 Jun, 7:53AM

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