Post1630. Friday February 16
I’m lounging in my armchair before a crackling log fire, in one hand a bulbous glass of fine vintage port, in the other a Montecristo Turbo Corona Grande cigar: six and one-eighth inches of heaven itself
I clip off the end before the ceremonial lighting; not a match, not a lighter, but a seasoned wooden taper.
I draw in the smoke, slowly, for cigar smoke should be savoured not swallowed, then hold it in my mouth until I taste cedar wood and cherries.
Perfect rings of smoke rise above me, fragrant halos which slowly fade leaving an aroma that transports me back to the smoky bars of Havana.
As the music of Mozart wafts over me, I close my eyes and enjoy an hour of perfect peace and contentment.
When the time comes to say farewell to my smoking partner, I don’t stub it out for to do so would show a lack of respect; no I let it fade away naturally, for someone once said the end of a good smoke is like losing a friend who had time to sit and listen.
This week’s cue word is Smoke.