A blond chap was standing in front of the Hamilton Centre, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and pretending to be waiting for someone. Wet snow was blown in his face, the fingers of his right hand were clammy and freezing. A gal in dirty jeans and a ski jack walked passed him and met his eye. He looked the other way when she came back.
“I’m giving up smoking,” she said, “would you like to have my cigarettes?”
He looked at her in surprise. He wasn’t used to being addressed by lasses like this, and especially not on a depressing morning like this. She started digging in her pocket and got out a small pack with pink post-its sellotaped to it.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“I’m giving up smoking.” She gave him a wide grin. “Do you wanna have ‘em?”
“Are you sure?”
She put them in his free hand. “Yeah, these were my frustration fags.”
And as she walked off he opened the pack. He saw sixteen bright filters; one cigarette was turned upside down. Then he read the post-it on the front. 05/02/09: UPS III.