The Pipeman

The day started well. I woke refreshed, arose and performed my toilet, examined my not so young countenance, shrugged, poured orange juice into my throat, munched my way through a bowl of complex carbohydrates, gazed out over the unkempt garden and, seated in the armchair, made a study of my patterned socks while waiting for an original thought to break into conscious awareness. Nothing happened. I switched my attention from socks to a framed photograph of a moustachioed gentleman astride an antique bicycle, which hung on the wall above the bookcase. After some minutes, in the course of which I ventured into the unseen world beyond the photo frame and encountered a disagreeable harridan who berated me for obstructing her view of the cyclist, I realised that inspiration was absent and filled and lit my thinking pipe. The sweet, nutty savour of a rich navy blend absorbed my interest, bestowing contentment and I stretched out my legs, waggled my stockinged toes and puffed trails of smoke at the ceiling.1

I began to review the recent past. Last Thursday, I think it was, my wife of thirty two years had left me. 2

"And thank God," she said over her shoulder, "I wont have to put up any longer with the smell of that damned pipe of yours either." She closed the front door and I watched from the sitting room window as she began to walk down the garden path, then paused by the lilac tree at the gate and setting her suitcase down returned to drop her door key through the letter flap. I heard it tinkle where it fell onto the parquet floor in the hall. A few days later, two men with a van arrived and politely and with few words, removed her personal possessions. I was obliged to purchase a microwave oven, a can opener and a plain pine wardrobe to replace an ornate antique one, the wedding gift of a Welsh relative, which had filled the bedroom. Her china had also been retrieved but a hand decorated stoneware platter, which had covered an abrasion on the kitchen wall caused by one of her 'throwing tantrums', serves, for now, as a dinner plate. Peace reigns in number 10, Ambrose Avenue.3

I re-light my pipe, pick up the phone and dial the number for 12, Ambrose Avenue; the house of the merry widow.4

Some women think a pipe makes a man look distinguished.5