PICTURES THAT PAINT A THOUSAND WORDS

(0R SO)

http://muse.calarts.edu/~rjaster/edvard-munch/gallery/self/self_cigarette.htm

STAN AND HIS FAGS

Stan knew that he had to time his request very carefully. Too soon after

breakfast and the staff would be busy tidying away so that they could have their

own break. Near to coffee time and they would be tolerating the whinnying

demands from the other guests; and then the marathon gallop to get everyone

potted and placed for the main hot meal of the day.

But, he was increasingly desperate for a morning smoke; not quite gasping, that

would come in about half an hour. Stan looked around the half a dozen other

old fogies in the, until recently, communal fuming lounge. That had been half

the reason for agreeing to come to this dump; for “respite, a little holiday break”

after the amputation of his leg; a place to have a spit and a draw with like

minded criminals who refused to renounce tobacco.

Except that, between the first visit and moving in a fortnight later, the managers

opted to change all the public areas into non-smoking; obliging the die-hards to

go out into the grounds to satiate their obnoxious addiction. Stan had been

bought off by his niece’s promise that the “lovely nurses” would be instantly

available to push his wheelchair outside when he wanted a cigarette.

And, for the first half-day, they had responded with alacrity; then muttering,

followed by one of the time-of-day specific avoidance ploys. After that

unappealing solid mass of cold, unsalted, grey porridge lying in a puddle of low

fat milk, topped with a token sprinkle of white sugar that was mislabelled as

breakfast; the first excuse would be “just a moment, Stan, we have to get

Agatha/Beryl/Connie/Dennis/Eric/Fred back into bed.” Followed later by, “we

have to finish putting around the tablets for Grace/Hannah/Iris/Joey/Kathy/Lola.

Next came, “I’m just helping Muriel/Nora/Oliver/Patsy/Queenie/Robert with this

hot drink. Then, ”no time now, we’ll be taking Tessa/Una/Vic/Wally/Youtha/Zoe

to the dinner table.” Somehow, like the unknown X, Stan’s turn in the alphabet

never arrived.

He had tried a number of alternative methods of obtaining a ride into the

garden, with varying degrees of failure. On the fourth morning of his sentence,

he asked a fit looking fellow fumer to help manoeuvre his wheelchair through

the fire-escape. Between them they arrived safely, self-rolled, lit up, inhaled

deeply but did not converse. Long before reaching the end, his new mate

wandered off, out of Stan’s view, and so far away that the police did not find him

until dusk. How was Stan to know that the other chap had severe dementia?

And what bloody right did the senior carer have to bollock him so bluntly about

letting the old fool out?

For the next while, the staff had been a bit more willing to assist Stan out for

one of his three-a-day post-prandial fags. Then the pretences returned,

prompting him to seek a another method. Ignoring the other residents, because

of whatever ailed them, Stan used his single functioning arm to drag his chariot

over the threadbare carpets to the exit. By squirming and shoving, he opened

the swing door and wedged it open with his chair. Having expertly prepared his

fix, Stan sat quite contently enjoying the through breeze; unaware that the

draught was wafting his smoke into the building.

Until he was deafened by the crash of the fire-alarms and bulldozed sideways

by the rush of bodies escaping the non-existent conflagration. In some ways,

the entertainment was worth the tearful remonstrations by his niece’s

embarrassed partner. Once again, Stan’s need for nicotine was grudgingly met

by the helpers, until what they considered more important matters intervened.

By the thirteenth day of his incarceration, Stan had perfected his own method of

getting a free fag. By observing for yellow stained digits on the care assistants,

he identified fellow addicts. Timing his request to the second, he called out in a

faux accent, “Nursey, Ge yerus a ciggy, duck?” just as they wandered into the

staff rest-room. Where, for some unexplained reason they were allowed to

smoke indoors. After a couple of false starts, Colleen had agreed to

accompany Stan into the external fall-out shelter, where he showed off his

ability to create a self-roll with one hand. She had much enjoyed the aromatic

tobacco, and willingly responded to further requests.

Accept that this morning, the one month anniversary, she was late reporting for

work and Stan was at gagging point. Slowly, he manoeuvred his powerless

chair out into the reception area, just as a police car parked up. Two officers

were disgorged and pushed the front door bell; twice, when the first ring elicited

no response. When eventually admitted, they had a mumbled, whispered

conversation with the harassed looking duty manageress and then advanced on

Stan.

“Can we have a quiet word, Sir?” asked one of the constables, whilst the other

peremptorily pushed him along the corridor to his bedroom.

“What about? What’s happened?”

“Do you know a young lady called Ms Dennison, Colleen Dennison, one of the

carers here?”

“Yes, of course. Why? Is she OK?”

“She will be, eventually! Ms. Dennison crashed off her motorcycle last evening,

breaking her arm by wrecking the bike against a couple of parked cars. The

hospital did the usual urine drug tests, and found her prescribed hay-fever

medicine, and a very high level of cannabis.”

“Ah. Yes. And...”

“And she, of course, denies any knowledge of ever taking any of the street

drugs. Until, on reflection, she recalled the pleasantly soothing cigarettes she

has been sharing with you for the last couple of weeks. Anything you wish to

tell us about the special mixture you use?”

“Depends on what you’ll do with the ‘gen I give you? Surely, no prosecution for

either of us?”

“Probably not, no. But, where do you get it from?”

“I grow my own, in the greenhouse. If you go and check, there should be seven

plants behind the shrubs tubs. Assuming that my niece has been watering

them; but she doesn’t know about my little secret, honestly!”

“And for how long?”

“I discovered the painkilling benefit of cannabis when I was in military hospital

after being shot in this arm during the troubles in Cyprus. Since then, I have

smoked dope three times a day, every day, without fail, and not cost the NHS a

penny in tablets. Even the night duty staff let me have a joint straight after my

leg was lopped off; better than Pethidine any day. And now that it’s a Class C

listed poison, well, no worries eh?”

“On one condition, Stan, “said the older police person, “that you keep a few

reefers worth to one side for us, OK?”

“Bribery and corruption; the language I understand,” replied Stan as he turned

to the aghast care home boss, “shall I ask the nice rozzers to push me into the

garden for a quick weed?”