Thronging the doorway

“Excuse me please”. The throng parts letting me through. Sometimes a kind soul holds open the door allowing me to enter.

In all weathers the die hards stand puffing away. In summer the scent of cigarettes wafts through the pub’s open door bringing with it memories of yester year, a time when walls turned yellow with nicotine and I, a non smoker returned home, my clothes smelling of smoke, cursing the filthy weed.

The rain drives the hardy band ever closer to the pub’s sheltering doorway

“Excuse me, excuse me” I say attempting to retain my fixed smile as I try to enter or leave.

Some said the British would never stand for it, this intrusion into the rights of the individual to light up in public. But what about the liberty of the non smoker not to have his lungs clogged with poison? The latter argument won the day.

and so you stand. Not quite the last hurrah but something noble in your tenacity not to give up despite the pouring rain.

I sit enjoying a pint, thinking of the bedraggled smokers outside.