“A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want?” Oscar Wilde.
Everyday when I pass that Quiline ad that asks you “Do you want to stop smoking?” I have to answer – no, not really.
Yes, yes, yes, I know all the arguments, the facts, the figures but fuck, I love smoking.
I love everything about it. Getting the cigarette paper out of its little packet, opening the pouch of tobacco, rolling the smoke, lighting up.
Just the act of rolling the ciggie calms and soothes me. I find it relaxing, like counting on a rosary or chanting – not that I’ve done much of either recently, I admit.
If I’m wrestling with a difficult media release or groping to find the right words, I walk outside, have a ciggie and everything seems to fall into place.
I smoke outside, I don’t smoke near other people (apart from other smokers), I don’t smoke on the street and I don’t smoke near The Boy.
I also have private health insurance, so you can cut out the old “drain on the public health system” shtick.
In the end, you can no more legislate for wisdom than you can for virtue – despite what my old chum Maximilien Robespierre might believe.
Smoking – it’s grouse.
The hacking cough is a bit of a worry, though.