Let’s do this together

Just had the decorators in – and no, that’s not a problematic euphemism from the sexist 80s. Les the painter came round to do my home office in a brighter shade of yellow as the old mustard colour looked like I’d been chuffing on 20 a day.

Of course, back in the bad old days, everyone used to smoke in the office. I remember my first desk had fag burns all along the edges where my predecessors used to leave their ciggies burning while they typed.

Unsurprisingly, the fire alarm used to go off most days and everyone would troop outside – it was probably the only fresh air some of us ever got.

I was reminded of that smell of ingrained fag smoke while I was watching the movie Argo the other night. Set in 1979, it stars Ben Affleck as a CIA agent who somehow found enough time between smoking tabs and smouldering in his tight jean shirt to save six US embassy workers during the Iranian hostage situation.

The Dark Lord joined me on the sofa for a few minutes while I was watching it, mainly so she could moan how bored she was.

“Can’t we watch something else? This is booooooring,” she yawned.

“That’s because anything over 30 seconds is boring to the Tiktok generation,” I told her. “Anyway, I’m enjoying Ben Affleck’s hairy chest too much. In fact the whole cast look like they have lockdown hair.”

After a few minutes, she whined again. “All they do is sit around smoking and drinking,” she complained.

“Well, that’s what people used to do back then. It was basically law that everyone smoked, even children,” I joked.

“Did you smoke?” she asked, suddenly interested. “Yep. I remember nicking my dad’s Embassy No6 and going for a sneaky puff round the corner. Then I’d stuff my face with Polos in the vain hope it would hide the smell on my breath,” I confessed.

“Did it work?” she asked.

“Nothing hides the smell of fags. You basically smell like an old ashtray until you give up… or die,” I said sagely.

Next day I heard a package drop on the doormat but I ignored it as it was probably yet another one of Jesse’s pointless purchases.

A little later she came into my room, “Er, I think these are for you,” she said knowingly, as she tipped out a packet of Vogue Blues.

“I can explain,” I shouted after her as she left.

She’s never going to believe me, but I bought them as a joke present for an old smoking buddy of mine that I’m meeting for a beer next week. Busted again.

Email me at siobhan.mcnally@mirror.co.uk or write to Community Corner, PO Box 791, Winchester SO23 3RP.