©Shers Gallagher 2013
|Smoke and ash|
It wasn't until my teaching year at Moscow State in Russia that I came down with borderline asthma. Since then I've been unable to tolerate even the slightest whiff of acrid smoke, which permeates and freezes my lungs like a poison. I stopped singing in pubs for the lack of being able to catch my breath before the smoking ban became effective in Holland, it being one of the last of the European holdouts due to the vehement protesting of our strong caterers' union in the Netherlands.
People like me were the sufferers all along, not the smokers who never seemed to give a care when others were choking around them. ‘What? You can't breathe? Well, then get the f#@! out of the pub.’
I'm hardened by the smoke and ash – the smokescreens of uncaring - having had too much of it blowing non-filtered rings in my direction, occupying my space. So, no. I don't give a care myself about smokers' rights. As far as I'm concerned, when they pollute the air with second-hand smoke only their companions who are haplessly inhaling it should be pitied.
Aisling Books - Magpie Tales