The other overcast, snowy day, I decided to keep myself occupied after the sun went down (but before Mr Moi came home) (the sun is gone by 4pm) by toddling down to the shops. So I rugged up (we’re sitting at an average temperature of about minus 1 at the moment), locked the door and walked onto the landing. And I could smell something wafting up – a combination of bad cigarettes and urine.
“Interesting choice in cigarettes from one of my fellow apartment dwellers,” I thought. But that’s all I thought about it. There are a few oldies who have lived in this building since time immemorial, and you know what old people are like. Even if their cigarettes are smelly, you can’t expect them to change.
Anyhoo. I popped in the lift and went down to the ground floor. Now, there are two doors to get into my building. And when I opened the first door, I got the fright of my life.
Between the first and second door, a drunk had taken up (sleepy) residence on the floor. I was so shocked and not a little scared, that I scuttled quickly through the second door, over the drunk and onto the street.
But I had discovered the source of the yukky cigarette smell – it was the drunk. But whether it was his cigarette, or his clothes, alight, I didn’t stop to look.
He was gone when I got home, but there was no pile of ashes on the floor. So even if his clothes were alight, at least I know he didn’t burn to death.