The Smoking Room
It was in the press today that according to a survey conducted by ASH (Action on Smoking and Health), 73% of people in this country are for a complete ban of smoking in the workplace. This indicates that the majority of us are for the changes proposed by the Government in this autumn’s Health Improvement and Protection Bill. People may dispute these statistics but I certainly have no objections – indeed I can hardly wait for the day when I can go to a restaurant and not have the taste of my meal ruined by the table next to me’s stinging smoke billowing over my food, and it’ll be great to go for a quiet drink after work and not return home with my clothes drenched in stale swathes of Eau d’Ashtray.
However, right now my current workplace couldn’t be further removed from New Labour directives. The building where ECI resides has objected to the vast number of smokers in our office standing outside on the street with a fag in their mouths as it looks unseemly and degrading, contrasting starkly with the image that Holborn Towers wishes to portray. So instead the smokers huddle in an internal fire escape stairwell directly next to the office itself, beside a door which is opened frequently by people going to and from the staff toilets in the same area. Therefore the office stinks like a pub and smoke wafts in across my screen and keyboard throughout the day. As I am a freelancer, I am in no position to complain, and as the manager of the company is a chain-smoking Greek, any protestations would fall on deaf ears.
What’s worse is that now I can’t even escape from the haze of nicotine in my home environment. A flat in the house next door has a roof terrace situated directly outside our bedroom window and its latest residents, an ever-changing crew of indeterminate origin (but possibly North African) and unknown number that I have nicknamed the Hornsey Terrorist Cell, sit outside late at night, wheeling and dealing on mobile phones and smoking heavily. I don’t mind the noise - ear plugs can block that out - but there is nothing we can do to shut out the smoke, as it will creep through our sash windows even when they are firmly closed, which on hot summer evenings isn’t usually the case. Once again it’s not within my rights to tell these people to stop or modify what they’re doing. From the pidgin I’ve heard them shout on their phones, I doubt their English would be good enough to understand my complaint in the first place, but the fact remains that it’s their roof terrace and their space, however close to and invasive of my own it may be. In London, unless you’re very rich, you unfortunately have to put up with the consequences of living on top of other people. There’s nothing the government can do to help me, but the fact remains that my own health is being put at risk through no fault of my own.
Ironically, I spent today reviewing subtitles for the BBC Three series The Smoking Room. At least sometimes, smokers can be bloody funny too. Just not at the expense of my own lungs, thank you very much. Cancer is nothing to laugh at.
REBECCA
However, right now my current workplace couldn’t be further removed from New Labour directives. The building where ECI resides has objected to the vast number of smokers in our office standing outside on the street with a fag in their mouths as it looks unseemly and degrading, contrasting starkly with the image that Holborn Towers wishes to portray. So instead the smokers huddle in an internal fire escape stairwell directly next to the office itself, beside a door which is opened frequently by people going to and from the staff toilets in the same area. Therefore the office stinks like a pub and smoke wafts in across my screen and keyboard throughout the day. As I am a freelancer, I am in no position to complain, and as the manager of the company is a chain-smoking Greek, any protestations would fall on deaf ears.
What’s worse is that now I can’t even escape from the haze of nicotine in my home environment. A flat in the house next door has a roof terrace situated directly outside our bedroom window and its latest residents, an ever-changing crew of indeterminate origin (but possibly North African) and unknown number that I have nicknamed the Hornsey Terrorist Cell, sit outside late at night, wheeling and dealing on mobile phones and smoking heavily. I don’t mind the noise - ear plugs can block that out - but there is nothing we can do to shut out the smoke, as it will creep through our sash windows even when they are firmly closed, which on hot summer evenings isn’t usually the case. Once again it’s not within my rights to tell these people to stop or modify what they’re doing. From the pidgin I’ve heard them shout on their phones, I doubt their English would be good enough to understand my complaint in the first place, but the fact remains that it’s their roof terrace and their space, however close to and invasive of my own it may be. In London, unless you’re very rich, you unfortunately have to put up with the consequences of living on top of other people. There’s nothing the government can do to help me, but the fact remains that my own health is being put at risk through no fault of my own.
Ironically, I spent today reviewing subtitles for the BBC Three series The Smoking Room. At least sometimes, smokers can be bloody funny too. Just not at the expense of my own lungs, thank you very much. Cancer is nothing to laugh at.
REBECCA
posted by Rebecca Dodgson | 5:46 am
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home