The smell of the suburbs
Sitting spent and wan under a parasol at the weekend, after sweating away at least a third of my body weight and probably seven units of alcohol mowing the lawn, I took a moment to enjoy the serene peace of…
>sniff sniff<
Somebody was smoking grass. The scent of hashish wafted over the gardens of middle England, bringing a touch of the exotic and the scent of the souk to The Village. Naturally one wanted to seek out the culprit, confiscate his stash and tell him to mend his ways before filling ones pipe with skunk and listening to Pink Floyd.
Actually it was a like a sorbet. The smells of that day had been, in order, mown grass, lighter fluid, firelighters and various other napalm like measures to get barbeques going, then charcoal, then the scent of sizzling meat.
I myself test fired the Barbie, slapping spiced marinated pork onto the bars and watching with satisfaction as the meat buggered itself into inedibility before my very eyes. Tremendous.
Which of my respectable neighbours was it, I wondered, who fired up a ‘jazz cigarette’ in their back garden. My money is on any pensioners living nearby. They always use the excuse that it’s a natural herbal cure for the sort of things that affect old people, like having a taste for biscuits or being fond of cats. More likely it’s something to do with the fact that they honeymooned in Morocco, never got over it and have kids called ‘Moonchild’ and ‘Leaf’ but are now at an age where they have retired and have turned the allotment over to growing some class C shit, no doubt using class A manure.
>sniff sniff<
Somebody was smoking grass. The scent of hashish wafted over the gardens of middle England, bringing a touch of the exotic and the scent of the souk to The Village. Naturally one wanted to seek out the culprit, confiscate his stash and tell him to mend his ways before filling ones pipe with skunk and listening to Pink Floyd.
Actually it was a like a sorbet. The smells of that day had been, in order, mown grass, lighter fluid, firelighters and various other napalm like measures to get barbeques going, then charcoal, then the scent of sizzling meat.
I myself test fired the Barbie, slapping spiced marinated pork onto the bars and watching with satisfaction as the meat buggered itself into inedibility before my very eyes. Tremendous.
Which of my respectable neighbours was it, I wondered, who fired up a ‘jazz cigarette’ in their back garden. My money is on any pensioners living nearby. They always use the excuse that it’s a natural herbal cure for the sort of things that affect old people, like having a taste for biscuits or being fond of cats. More likely it’s something to do with the fact that they honeymooned in Morocco, never got over it and have kids called ‘Moonchild’ and ‘Leaf’ but are now at an age where they have retired and have turned the allotment over to growing some class C shit, no doubt using class A manure.
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