Early 1998. O, I'm a big boy now. Got my first serious legal gig. Staff attorney to the American General Counsel of some crappy little slanty eyed software company.

So we're sitting at the Westwood version of Robert DeNiro's rent boy's restaurant. All of us. Head of HR, my boss, plenty of little slanty eyed devils I'd buggered the B-Jesus out of for years, some white folks, and, this being 1990s California, I think they might have had a Negroid.

One or more of the homosexuals (not easily discernible in California) went outside for a smoke. We joined them. Stood under a fairly young sapling near the curb. Engaged in small talk. Retuned, we returned to the table to enjoy what arguably was the best raw fish devoured east of the Pacific that evening. Perhaps there was alcohol.

HR asks me if I smoke. I said "No". If she'd had a penis, she would have gotten an erection. She might have repeated my words, such as "You don't smoke?" I replied no.

IT LIED TWICE.

She was severely chuffed. Proud as a new mama. She had smelled my duplicity on the right (left if you're Australian) coast of America.

At the time I smoked socially, about one or two a day. Back in the day, if someone pulled their's out, and offered me a fag, I was as likely as not to put it in my mouth. Hole. For more than a score, I've wondered if she thinks she won.