Smoking Friday Night

There was Tony, and Bill and Scott.

An early Friday night in the London suburbs.

Bill asked me to light his hand rolled cigarette. Just outside the pub.

This smoking ban is transforming social life. Now people of all walks of life gather outside, getting to know each other in a most City like way.

Bill cigarette is not of the usual kind. More of what we froggies call a "pétard". That's all right.

Tony has three wifes. Or so he boasts. Scott has the arrogance of a newly born, and the tenacity of a hamster on its wheel. Short-sighted and willing all the same.

I gave my usual line about sports, not caring a bit that I would get my point through. How could I?

If all eleven of them had their own ball, there wouldn't be much to talk about.

It's just that they're on the cheap, and pretend to not be able to afford one on their own, so they have to share.

But frankly, is that called a game?

Never mind.

The pétard is going from hand to hand, and the next round of Guinness arrives. All standing in a fresh August night.