An Irishwoman's Diary

Joyce Reilly: I'm thinking of taking up smoking - and it's all Micheál Martin's fault

Joyce Reilly: I'm thinking of taking up smoking - and it's all Micheál Martin's fault. After weeks of minding everyone else's drink, while they chat and flirt in a Bogart-like tobacco haze on the street outside, I'm tempted to invest in my first packet of 20.

Second-hand smoke may be as damaging to your health as Mr Martin claims, but it's not nearly as painful to the ego as the sense that I'm missing out on the camaraderie and romance currently flourishing on pavements outside pubs across the country.

There are four of us in our traditional Friday night party, three smokers and myself. Initially, everything seemed fine as we sat, drinks in hand, marvelling at the nice clean air and toasting a Minister who had delivered on his promise rather than collapsing under a well-oiled political lobby machine.

"This is great," said Aideen, a 20-a-day woman. Paula, a chain smoker, agreed. "It's just what we need - the incentive to give them up." Kate, the final member of the tobacco trio, followed the party line. "Great," she said, though with less conviction, and her hand shook a little as she downed her rum and Coke in one go.

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Subsequent Friday nights became more strained. Then, suddenly, the exodus began. "I'm just nipping out the back for one last quick one," Kate announced, hands shaking like an off-track tick-tack man. "Can you order me another?" She threw me a nervous glance as she rushed off.

There was an embarrassed silence. "You can really smell the difference in the air," Paula said, struggling to make small talk. "It's really. . ."

"Clean," sighed Aideen. "But I'll just go and see what's keeping Kate. Get one in for me, will you?"

Paula didn't last long after that. I'd barely got out money for the drinks when she stood up to make her exit, pausing only to tell me: "I'll have the same again. I won't be a jiffy."

So there I was, out of pocket for three fast ones, sitting in the pub on my own on a Friday night. OK, the air was clean - but no cleaner than if I'd stayed at home.

After what seemed an eternity, Kate returned, her face beaming as if she had just discovered the winning Lotto ticket in a corner of her purse. "You'll never guess who I met out there," she gushed. "You wouldn't believe it. . .Sean's cousin. He's renting out a room in his house. I'm going to look at it Tuesday, before he puts it in the small ads. A first-refusal sort of thing. And he's so cute, got this dimple. . .

"He's over there, can you see? Keep an eye out for when he goes for another smoke. God, I think he's going out again already."

Kate downed her drink in one go. "Same again, Joyce - you don't mind, do you?" And she was off towards the door, cigarettes at the ready.

On my own again, I make a quick survey of the half-empty lounge. Another lone woman, doing guard duty over a table laden with drinks, catches my eye.

"Nice clean air," she remarks.

Before I can shout back an appropriate platitude, Aideen reappears, flushed with excitement. She grabs her gin and tonic and knocks it back with a flourish.

"I have to go back out, there's this Spanish guy," she giggles. "He's offered to teach me some useful Spanish phrases - for the holidays, like."

I can't believe it - I'm on my own again.

The waiter comes and takes away the glasses. "Nice clean air," he says. "You seem to be enjoying it." He removes the impressive line of empty glasses and smiles condescendingly.

At last Kate is back. "Martin - the guy with the room - he says I can have a quick look at it now." She gulps her drink and grabs her coat.

"Great night. See you Monday."

I'm counting the flowers on the wallpaper when Aideen returns. "Manuel's asked me back to his place. You don't mind, do you? He's going back to Barcelona in the morning," she adds, as if this explains everything.

"Paula's talking to some Australian tourists. She says she'll be back in a minute. God, this was one of our best Fridays." And off she goes, Manuel in tow.

On my own again, fighting envy and boredom, I sneak on my reading glasses - not that anyone's casting admiring glances my way - and study the legend over the bar. "Life is for living," it says. Obviously written on a Friday night before the smoking ban, I think grimly.

The waiter comes to collect more empties, disapproval in his eyes. "Another double, please," I say defiantly.

Half-an-hour later and Paula's still not back. I find myself casting an appraising eye over the cigarette machine in the corner. The smoking ban is certainly good for my health. But I'm beginning to think that smokers, like blondes, might have more fun.