Much Ado About Smoking

They installed a smoke detector in my room. It means I can no longer consume nicotine in the privacy and comfort of my own room. To tell you the truth, I’m not supposed to do that in the first place. Oh well, the back yard it is from now on.

Actually, I’m not new to outdoor smoking. When I still lived in the Bekasi house under the regime of Lady Widyasmoro, indoor smoking was abhorred. The perpetrator of such degenerate conduct would be treated with cold shoulder and deprived of carnal joy for a certain period of time. None the less, I used to tiptoe out of the bedroom when the lady was fast asleep, opened the front door to allow air circulation, and lit a cigarette. In most cases I managed to puff myself halfway down the cigarette stick before I heard the familiar are-you-smoking-in-the-living-room-Dear?. And out I went.

In retrospect, smoking outside one’s house in Bekasi is not that bad. It was mostly warm and humid. I could go out in my undershirt and sarong. Any evening breeze would be most welcome. Yes, there were the mosquitoes, but a decent insect repellent should do the trick. I even went as far as smoking while swinging my racket-like electric mosquito trap. The crackling sound of electrocuted mosquitoes was music to my ears.

Now, in this part of the world they call Newcastle, things are different. Going out to smoke in undershirt and sarong, especially after midnight, is considered as an act of lunacy. Not only on account of the fact that the temperature during the winter is hovering around zero, but also of the unforgiving breeze that will penetrate your sarong and threaten to freeze your most valuable asset. So, in addition to the outfit in question, I have to put on thermal undergarment, track pants, socks, gloves, hooded fleece jerseys, and balaclava. All in the name of nicotine addiction.