My family were still away, and my customers had all gone away too, and I had spent the week collecting the tumbleweed that had been drifting through the shop with all the monotonous regularity of a Michael Nyman soundtrack. Then my customers all came back at once and I was busy, and so that evening, to celebrate, I cooked a fillet steak, opened a bottle of red wine and smoked a cigar. I even washed some lettuce.
The steak I cut in to strips, added onions, mushrooms and cream, made a stroganoff and served it with noodles. It was a bit chewy. The wine bordered on corked and the cigar was a Henri Winterman’s that had once belonged to a dead man. But I was happy.
Once upon a time, I had developed quite a taste for a good cigar, but I have spent most of my working life as a bookseller, which was just about fine until somebody invented the internet. That coupled with the arrival in my life of children who grow if you feed them and turn into stroppy vegetarian health fascists, pretty much put a stop to that.
The cigars had been given to the mother of my children by a friend who had thoughtfully rescued them from the belongings of her dead father-in-law. His death was unexpected, but I’m not sure if it was smoking related, I didn’t really want to ask.
The mother, having some, but not much, sympathy for my former life, had hidden the cigars from sight, placing them high on top of the fridge freezer in the kitchen. But it was not enough.
Within and hour they had been found. Buy the time I came home, the teenager had conducted an inquest and had found me guilty of buying and then hiding cigars from them. The house was in silence and none of the children would answer my questions about their day.
In the top of the first box was a note that said, If you are ever stupid enough to smoke one of these I am no longer your daughter.
In the other box a note said, STOP NOW, DO NOT USE, you have 79 cigars. YOU idiot.
Inexplicably they had not been thrown away. The children have been on holiday now for four weeks. There are 63 cigars left.
Of course, I won’t be mentioning any of this on my own blog and I trust you good people not to squeal either.
I would lose way too many house points.
The next morning I put the untouched salad back in the fridge.
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8 comments:
Love it, absolutely love it! Somebody needs to spank nonworking monkey for her wicked sense of humor!
Not me. Was Jonathan.
Hi Jonathan,
Yes, it's hell living with kids. (Mind you it's also kind of hell living without them! What can you do.)
My readers have all gone away too. Mind you, I'm going away for three weeks tomorrow morning so I'm a fine one to talk.
I'm speaking on behalf of the poor lonely untouched salad. "I'm wilting..wilting".
Sweet Irene - thank you, although I'm not sure that this is the right forum for discussing monkey spanking, non-working or otherwise.
NWM - just turn the lights out when you want me to leave.
Ms B - I love them really.
jali - I will give the salad an egg and some olives to play with, or something.
Ha ha, I see I goofed. Hi Jonathan, that was a very funny post. I didn't realize it really happened. I thought nonworking monkey was having a bit of fun with us. Sometimes I think I read to many blogs and I get all discombobulated. Ciao.
Jonathan, I would consider it a positive BOON to get into my car (2003 Micra, battered) and drive to your shop and buy you a cigar. After all, you are in the South London and I am not far, and this is an excellent post and I should thank you somehow.
and then I could tell my children that a monkey bought me a cigar and they would fix you forever with their evil gaze...(and probably try to give you nits)
It was a pleasure.
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