Last Saturday night there was a fire in the flat above mine, and we were all rushed out into the street at three o'clock in the morning while the fire department put it out. It turned out that the people upstairs had been smoking some "water filled device," according the the fire officials, which had promptly ignited and lit the nearby garbage can on fire. Our flat smelled vaguely of barbecued plastic for the rest of the week.
The interesting outcome of the fire is that we in Flat 16 found out we had a sixth roommate. Five of us had been living together for about a month with what we thought was an empty bedroom waiting to be occupied. We were all dumbstruck when the door to her room flew open when the fire alarm sounded, and "Number 6" rushed outside. Awkward introductions were done in our pajamas in the street. Apparently Number 6 had been living with us for the better part of the week. We had never seen her in our kitchen, living room or bathrooms. She had not occupied any cupboard space in the kitchen or storage closet. She told us she had been leaving very early in the morning and returning very, very late at night. I think if there hadn't been a fire, we wouldn't have ever known she was there, and she would have been happy with that. And we would never have known that she was responsible for the smell of cigarette smoke that had invaded our apartment for the better part of a week.
"Are you a smoker?" Giertrud asked her bluntly.
"Yes," Number 6 replied sweetly.
"Well, uh, this is a non-smoking flat and we don't like smoking."
Number 6 looked alarmed.
"But I requested a smoking flat."
Number 6 couldn't get her head around the concept that she had been brought in as a replacement and hadn't found her ideal living situation, but reluctantly agreed to stop smoking in the flat, which made me very relieved as my allergies were back in full force and I was congested and coughing up a storm, which was what happened to me when I was a kid and my parents still smoked in the house (they didn't know any better. She does). We thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn't. Number 6 (and yes all of us call her Number 6) has been smoking in her tiny closet of a room and then spraying perfume to cover it up and thinks we don't notice. We do notice, and also marvel at how she survives in her room with the smell. So now we are in the midst of making an official complaint to building administration. The manager put up a "Thank you for not smoking sign" on her door last night, which she promptly ripped down before closing the door to her room and lighting up. Meanwhile I'm taking cough syrup for "tickly coughs" (apparently the only two kinds of cough syrup available here are for either "tickly coughs" or "chesty coughs." It actually says that on the bottle) and keeping my windows wide open.
I can't believe how many people in London smoke. And not in a "I'll-just-step-outside-and-have-a-smoke-so-I-don't-bother-anyone" kind of way. No, no. In restaurants. In grocery stores. At the bar. At school. Waiting for the bus. Walking down the street. Smoking culture is alive and well and a total shock. I find myself getting offended when someone lights up without asking in my presence and I have to remind myself that I'm not in Kansas anymore. I think if they tried to implement a public place smoking ban the way we have in B.C., the people would riot in the streets. It would be worse than when New York City implemented its ban. The anti-tobacco lobby isn't here yet, which can't be surprising in a city that hasn't figured out how to recycle yet, either.
On Thursday night I was waiting at the bus stop, to go across the river to meet some friends at a bar. There was a group of kids, about 13 years old, right between my two youngest cousins in age, waiting with me. The only girl in the group reached into her pocket at one point, pulled out a cigarette, which she had obviously nicked from her parents, and lit up. She looked ridiculous. The cigarette looked huge in her tiny hand and she was grinning from ear-to-ear, obviously feeling like a grown-up and very pleased with herself. I felt so sad looking at her (Brooke, Kendall, if you smoke, I'm gonna kill you. Period). Her friends shouted to me, "Hey lady, can you arrest her for smoking, she's too young." One of her supporters pointed out that she could only get arrested for buying cigarettes, not smoking them, which was true. I looked at this girl and told her she looked stupid and that she'd look even worse in 20 years if she kept smoking. She looked at me like I was from another planet, flipped me the bird, and hopped on the bus, cigarette a-flamin'. My lungs ache for her just thinking about it.
Anyways, me, my clothes and my respiratory tract will never get used to how prevalent smoking is here. Interesting dirty London tidbit: walking down the Strand, a busy London artery near the LSE, apparently exposes you to the air-pollution equivalent of smoking a pack of cigarettes. Given that I walk down the Strand every day, I should probably stop complaining. I'm practically a smoker already.
The interesting outcome of the fire is that we in Flat 16 found out we had a sixth roommate. Five of us had been living together for about a month with what we thought was an empty bedroom waiting to be occupied. We were all dumbstruck when the door to her room flew open when the fire alarm sounded, and "Number 6" rushed outside. Awkward introductions were done in our pajamas in the street. Apparently Number 6 had been living with us for the better part of the week. We had never seen her in our kitchen, living room or bathrooms. She had not occupied any cupboard space in the kitchen or storage closet. She told us she had been leaving very early in the morning and returning very, very late at night. I think if there hadn't been a fire, we wouldn't have ever known she was there, and she would have been happy with that. And we would never have known that she was responsible for the smell of cigarette smoke that had invaded our apartment for the better part of a week.
"Are you a smoker?" Giertrud asked her bluntly.
"Yes," Number 6 replied sweetly.
"Well, uh, this is a non-smoking flat and we don't like smoking."
Number 6 looked alarmed.
"But I requested a smoking flat."
Number 6 couldn't get her head around the concept that she had been brought in as a replacement and hadn't found her ideal living situation, but reluctantly agreed to stop smoking in the flat, which made me very relieved as my allergies were back in full force and I was congested and coughing up a storm, which was what happened to me when I was a kid and my parents still smoked in the house (they didn't know any better. She does). We thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn't. Number 6 (and yes all of us call her Number 6) has been smoking in her tiny closet of a room and then spraying perfume to cover it up and thinks we don't notice. We do notice, and also marvel at how she survives in her room with the smell. So now we are in the midst of making an official complaint to building administration. The manager put up a "Thank you for not smoking sign" on her door last night, which she promptly ripped down before closing the door to her room and lighting up. Meanwhile I'm taking cough syrup for "tickly coughs" (apparently the only two kinds of cough syrup available here are for either "tickly coughs" or "chesty coughs." It actually says that on the bottle) and keeping my windows wide open.
I can't believe how many people in London smoke. And not in a "I'll-just-step-outside-and-have-a-smoke-so-I-don't-bother-anyone" kind of way. No, no. In restaurants. In grocery stores. At the bar. At school. Waiting for the bus. Walking down the street. Smoking culture is alive and well and a total shock. I find myself getting offended when someone lights up without asking in my presence and I have to remind myself that I'm not in Kansas anymore. I think if they tried to implement a public place smoking ban the way we have in B.C., the people would riot in the streets. It would be worse than when New York City implemented its ban. The anti-tobacco lobby isn't here yet, which can't be surprising in a city that hasn't figured out how to recycle yet, either.
On Thursday night I was waiting at the bus stop, to go across the river to meet some friends at a bar. There was a group of kids, about 13 years old, right between my two youngest cousins in age, waiting with me. The only girl in the group reached into her pocket at one point, pulled out a cigarette, which she had obviously nicked from her parents, and lit up. She looked ridiculous. The cigarette looked huge in her tiny hand and she was grinning from ear-to-ear, obviously feeling like a grown-up and very pleased with herself. I felt so sad looking at her (Brooke, Kendall, if you smoke, I'm gonna kill you. Period). Her friends shouted to me, "Hey lady, can you arrest her for smoking, she's too young." One of her supporters pointed out that she could only get arrested for buying cigarettes, not smoking them, which was true. I looked at this girl and told her she looked stupid and that she'd look even worse in 20 years if she kept smoking. She looked at me like I was from another planet, flipped me the bird, and hopped on the bus, cigarette a-flamin'. My lungs ache for her just thinking about it.
Anyways, me, my clothes and my respiratory tract will never get used to how prevalent smoking is here. Interesting dirty London tidbit: walking down the Strand, a busy London artery near the LSE, apparently exposes you to the air-pollution equivalent of smoking a pack of cigarettes. Given that I walk down the Strand every day, I should probably stop complaining. I'm practically a smoker already.