Cultural Prompts
A Method In Our Madness
The Last Drag
“Ah, you see,” she said, “there’s a method in our madness.”
This was her reply to my question as to why the traditionally anarchist Irish, quick to reject new laws from the governing establishment in Dublin, had meekly accepted the ban on smoking in pubs and restaurants overnight.
She’d just come in from the cold to continue sipping her flat Guinness lying to waste on the table we were sharing, and roll her next round of cigarettes. This short wizened old lady, her slight torso plunked onto a pair of thin legs locked in an embrace under her seat, went on to explain.
“You see, there’s more craic nowadays outside the pub than there is inside, and it’s healthier for all concerned.”
We looked up in unison and swiftly scanned the pub’s lounge taking in its smoke-free murmur. With an impassioned sigh of reminiscence, she continued.
“And if I get bored with the chat in my group of banned smokers then I just move on to another group outside the next pub and join in on the new round of local news.” Her wink sparkled a toothless grin.
I could only nod and smile my acknowledgment. This was my first trip to Ireland since the smoking ban in public places had come into effect. Driving through the countryside, I had wondered at the groups of people I’d see huddled on the streets on a late winter’s night. This wasn’t the nocturnal rural Ireland I remembered. With rarely a soul in sight.
It was, however, all falling into place. The government had obviously scored a hat trick by emphasizing the adverse danger of passive smoking to the health: Of the staff in the gastronomy business, non-smokers in general, and last in the hierarchy of acceptance, of the individuals themselves. The old foxes had known only too well the kindness of the Irish and their proneness to guilt.
Ready and armed to rush off with her ammunition of rolled cigarettes of all shapes and sizes, I thanked her and settled back to my group of friends.
The following year, driving through the same little village, I popped into the pub for my supper as I remembered the food had been good there. And presuming my little old friend might be outside gallivanting somewhere, I asked the barman as a matter of conversation if there was a likelihood of her popping in that evening. She’d been quick during our conversation to inform me that the pub was her nightly haunt, bar Sundays.
He knew from my description who I meant and lowering his voice sombrely told me she had died a few months previously… smoking and gossiping outside the pub across the way. I noted a faint head shake of disapproval.
“Her heart couldn’t take any more, and she was dead on arrival in hospital.”
We shared a few seconds of respectful silence.
“I suppose” he added wryly “you could say…” he paused,
“…she died doing what she loved doing… and only God knows which one she preferred most, smoking or gossiping.”
With deference to the dead, I smothered a smile and raised my glass to the memory of this wise little old lady of leisure and life.
Thank you, Thomas Plummer, for prompting me to write this little story. A fond memory.
