It’s Wednesday night and the first time I’ve been to the pub since the smoking ban. I’ve prepared by buying a pack of cigarettes. Ironically this would have been unheard of pre-ban (it being the only thing that justified my self-definition as an ex-smoker). But this latest action has galvanised me into becoming a committed smoker again, complete with all the paraphernalia. It’s partly a rebellious streak but more because I’ve been promised all sorts of exciting interactions outside the pub. It’s called ‘smirting’, apparently - an amalgamation of smoking and flirting. A sort of Blitz spirit that arises out of being united by an illicit activity.
Tonight it doesn’t start well. In the first pub one of my companions goes out and comes back five minutes later, a look of disappointment on his face. ‘It’s no good’, he says. ‘There were three girls out there and they all talked to each other. They didn’t say a word to me.’ But later a couple of us share our smoking space with two men engaged in an un-followable philosophical argument. With a determination to get some smirting done I wade in. ‘Forgive me but there doesn’t seem to be much actual disagreement between you’, I say. ‘That’s just it’, says one, to my surprise. Basking in the unexpected glow of mutual agreement, we pair off. We have about ten minutes to get to know each other and it moves things on fast. Later we swap. It’s like speed dating, I say. My new friend likes this idea. I start to feel smug. The conversations I’m having outside are some of the most intense and the most meaningful I’ve had all night, I think to myself. They’re right about smirting. It’s almost worth taking up smoking for it. All the most interesting people are smokers. The world’s a happier place for getting them together.
The next night there’s a fight outside the pub. Between two smokers. ER