The pouffe was smoking; no I don’t mean literally sitting
there with a cigarette in its (non- existent) mouth or on fire type smoking;
but that you could smell smoke and that the smell was coming from the pouffe.
The pouffe had belonged to my Nan,
a heavy smoker for as long as I could remember; and yes it did cause her demise
in the end. The only time she refrained from smoking was when I took my newborn
baby daughter to visit her (then she told me granddad off as he was about to
light his cigarette!)
The pouffe became a significant
part of the visits made by myself and my family. We had moved away so were only
able to visit a few times a year but whenever we were in the area, even if we
weren’t actually meant to be visiting her, we would call in and see my Nan. The
kids would charge into the front room, which usually earned them a scowl or
those often heard words “Oh for goodness sake” or “What a racket” my Nan being
the ‘seen and not heard’ generation, as they raced to see who could retrieve
the pouffe from its resting place behind the sofa and therefore gain a seat.
When my Nan passed away my daughter asked if she could have the pouffe. My mum
and my aunt did their best to clean the pouffe and it arrived at our house
smelling and looking a lot fresher than it had left my Nan’s.
The first time I smelt smoke
coming from the pouffe I laughingly told my mum that her mother was haunting me
and then I set to spraying fabric freshener
assuming the straw filling must have let out the aroma of smoke. The
next couple of times the aroma of smoke arrived we paid more attention,
especially as they coincided with something going on in our lives, and asked my
Nan (the pouffe) what it was she was trying to say.
Pure fantasy and imagination you
may say and I would agree with you if not for the fact that one incident
happened first thing in the morning. I opened the lounge door, drew back the
curtains and went into the kitchen. Half an hour later when I returned to the
lounge the aroma of smoke hit me straight away; it certainly hadn’t been there
the first time and nobody had been in the room; let alone, touched the pouffe.
So what’s the truth? Why does my
pouffe smell of smoke despite numerous squirts of fabric freshener? Is it
because the straw filling releases its scent? Or is it a sign that my Nan is
still watching over me? All I know is that sometimes there’s no reason for the
lounge to be filled with a pungent stale cigarette smell, yet it is and at
those times I usually say ‘hello’ to my Nan and wait to see if anything is about
to change in my life.
