In warm and sunny weather, some of us here at Smokingpipes take to eating lunch on the small balcony which projects from the back of our offices, the door to which is a mere few feet from my desk. A further subset, namely women, simultaneously take to attempting to form bonds with the various half-feral mongrel felines which inhabit the general area. If you were thinking that where this is leading to is a feral cat scrambling, bat-out-of-hell style at me down the back stairs, congratulations; you are correct. I saw it coming myself, of course, as I returned from fetching my own lunch to see Susan and Pam sitting up on the balcony, with Susan exclaiming something along the lines of, "And now Eric is going to ruin it!", as I approached the back stairs. What could I possibly be ruining this week? I knew they weren't throwing me a surprise birthday party up there, certainly not at this time of the year.

Sure enough, I had just barely made it halfway up the second turn when a grey blur came clawing its way at me from above, only to stop suddenly with its yellow eyes wide. We paused there, watching each other, for a few brief moments before the little vagabond rushed passed me, having apparently decided that I was marginally less dangerous to the continuation of its free-wheeling lifestyle than a leap off the side of the stairs and onto the asphalt from one story up. As I myself reached the balcony, Susan (holding a small piece of meat) and Pamella began with their admonishments. Faced with their irrational laying of guilt upon me for the simple act of walking up a flight of stairs to enter a building, the most conciliatory statement I could devise was, "I am sorry that I stopped you from throwing sausage at a cat, Susan."

I've often seen comments by our customers regarding what a grand time it must be, to enjoy a (very) smoke-friendly environment, getting to try out just about any blend freely, and so forth. To those of you who envy us, consider this a warning regarding the darker side of whiling away one's days at Smokingpipes: You will be charged at by feral animals, and then women will scold you for it. I hear a lot of men throughout history (and pre-history, for that matter) have had this problem.

What so very few of them have had, however, is so very many pipes: Today we present a plentiful assortment of Stanwells, Savinellis, Brebbias, and Petersons, in addition to a fine selection from Ser Jacopo, Ardor, and Claudio Cavicchi. Last but not least come several premier briars from Benni Jorgensen of Denmark, and America's own Brad Pohlmann in addition to a whopping 92 gently used and carefully cleaned estate pipes.

Eric Squires: Copywriter