Here, with much love, is a little Valentine’s Day message for my husband. If there was a song that I could sing to you on this special day it would be Smoke Gets In Your Eyes, which could possibly be the reason why you are starting to develop cataracts by the way. It also gets in mine, whenever I venture down into the basement to do a load of washing.
It gets up my nose too, literally and figuratively. I hate that everything in the house smells like the morning after in a four-ale pub and that anything that I was rash enough to store downstairs (the smoker’s lair) is now totally unusable.
And yes, as you are so ready to point out to me, my parents smoked like chimneys for much of their lives, but at least they stopped when it was finally driven home to them how it was damaging their health and that of everyone else around them. Incidentally, they didn’t need pills, gum, patches or anything else to help them quit. They just did it!
Well, I’ve put up with it for almost forty years but, as my grandmother once told my grandfather when complaining about his snoring, “PEOPLE IN AMERICA CAN GET A DIVORCE FOR SOMETHING LIKE THIS, YOU KNOW!”
So watch it!