Thursday Night, Not Quite?
Old Pulteney is the evening’s muse. This isn’t an endorsement of OP12, though I’m a big fan. Endorsements cost money (hint hint).
I’m working on it.
It’s a Friday morning—though it feels more like a very late Thursday night. The kids are at the grandparents’, so it’s a date night. A healthy dinner: sea bass, couscous, and a bottle of Cali Red (too much, in truth). I was recently informed that yes, it is a 19 Crimes wine. Sorry Ioan. I’m rarely wrong on these things. <3
Cohibas and Quiet Reckonings
I’m on the third cigar of the day—one at lunch, two now in these twilight hours. All Cohiba Smalls, of course. And like Bill Clinton, we don’t inhale. Not here to justify it. There’s no defence for the smoky coffee scent clinging to my grey Percival wool shacket and knit watch cap. I’ll need to wash up well or face the wrath of the queen.
Oisín O’Malley is on in the background. I’m in the garden, sat beside the climbing hydrangeas, plotting on a polar dial Rolex Explorer II. Can I sell this to the wife? Unlikely. But it’ll be alright. I bought a mesh butterfly Herman Miller Mirra today. Not retail therapy—at least that’s what I’m telling myself.
Work, Wealth, and the Quiet Urge
I’m moving the office from the dining room to the garage, converting the space into a recording and video studio. The main job will be run from there now.
That job? They gave us a hard week. But we endure. Stack the nice salary, the commission checks, and keep a smile on our faces, eh? Easier on payday, for sure. I’m grateful for what I earn—it’s not given—and for what it’s allowed me to change. But the romantic altruist in me wants more. To contribute something different. Maybe take on more headache, in exchange for real efficacy.
What I do is impressive, maybe even grand. And yet…
“My soul insists there’s a better way.”
Salt, Smoke, and a Moment of Pride
It’s not lost on me that I’m sat beneath a Japanese cherry blossom, sending cigar smoke into the night. Polluting the earth, and maybe myself too. I’m sipping Pulteney. The sea salt and American oak are loud in this glass. The Ocean Breathes Salty comes to mind. Fitting, for this odd blend of melancholy and satisfaction.
It should be a Sinatra night. Maybe tomorrow.
A neighbour skulks by their upstairs window. Lovely folks – 0 sarcasm intended. The figure is likely wondering what I’m doing at this hour—and what’s in this small Cuban cigar. Just the good, legal stuff.
The Thing That Matters
Anyway. It’s been a hell of a week. And I’m realising something every time I start a draft : I love this. Writing. Podcasting. Video’s fine, editing less so. But the conversations? Sharing them with the world? That’s the thing.
People are impressed with what I do at the office—rightfully so—but this… this is what I’m proud of. I’ve found my thing. And I’m diving in headfirst.
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