Cognac and Firewood

I'm of a mind to sit in the big leather chair before the crackling fire, sipping aged cognac and thinking deep thoughts. I don't have a big leather chair, we don't have any firewood, I don't actually care for cognac -- but you get the idea. I'm in the mood to just think. I get that way sometimes. I wish I could say that out of this comes great thoughts -- usually, they're pretty pedestrian, and not worth remembering -- but I like the feeling, anyway. It makes me feel somehow classier than I actually am.

Not that I handle 'classy' all that well. Years ago, we went to Toronto, where I took advantage of the availability of Cuban cigars to buy some. I told the shop owner that I'd never had any, and was of the impression that they were quite good. He sold me three, assuring me that my impression was true, and I went back to the hotel, where we sat in our very nice room at the Four Seasons, and I drank some of their cognac and smoked one cigar. I wanted the experience, you see, and to see if it was all that it was cracked up to be. After about ten minutes of this, I said something to my wife about how this was quite the classy experience, though I didn't think it was really for me, and - and - and then I bolted for the bathroom, where I promptly heaved vigorously. Pale, a bit wobbly, I came slowly back, poured out the remainder of the cognac, stubbed out the cigar, placed the other two carefully onto the desk for the maid to take, and went to bed.

Months later, I told that story to a cigar - loving friend, who laughed and told me that everybody knows that Cuban cigars are quite strong. But good, he added.

So the classic langourous life is probably not for me. But sometimes, I like to fake it.