Attending a party last night, I was asked to join a very pleasant lady for a cigarette outside. Just recently having quit smoking (as, by the way, has my wife) I politely declined the invitation, but said I wouldn’t mind joining her outside, to test my resistance, especially under the influence, as it were.
Which, surprisingly, or maybe not, went very well, thank you for asking.
The wife’s concern, however, upon finding the spouse with another woman by the bonfire was whether or not he’d been smoking, which struck me as a little odd, or maybe not, as it only goes to show that I can be trusted with women, as opposed to cigarettes, even if it raises a question or two pertaining to marital priorities.
Be that as it may, one’s resistance to temptations of all sorts, save wine, was unwavering, as always. On the following day, however, there’s no denying that one’s clothes do reek of smoke.
Or, as my one-time favourites, The Tubes (we’re talking the 1970s), once put it:
Illustration: Computer graphic Lucky, drawn by yours truly, who, knock on wood, doesn’t miss them, except for every now and then.