The annual Young Professionals Charity Ball took place in September to raise money for the Royal Flying Doctors. The invitation asked: “Ever wanted to dance with a doctor, liaise with a lawyer, engage with an engineer or accost an accountant?” Never having wanted to do any of those things, I decided not to attend.
But a week before the event, I met a young lawyer who got me to thinking. He said he planned to attend, but felt nervous because he had just quit smoking and thought he might be tempted to lapse on the night. It made me wonder which type of professionals might be the biggest smokers. I decided to gatecrash to find out.
Expecting social smokers to show themselves late, I waited until it was almost pumpkin o’clock before summoning a carriage to take me to the ball. I dressed well, conscious of the fact that, having no ticket, I would have to sneak in. I barely had to sneak, and in fact doubled back to security to ask: “Where are all the smokers?”
I was directed to the balcony where, in time, a smoker appeared: an unhappy accountant. With unsmiling lips, she drew on her cigarette and ever so reluctantly disclosed her profession. I think she thought I was trying to pick her up.
Next came smoking couple: a silent woman and a muscular man – a banker who glared like he was going to hit me. I’m sure he thought, somehow, I was trying to pick her up.
I located my next smoker and had only just learned she was a lawyer when a guy turned up, said “Hi, honey,” planted a sloppy kiss, and left – his territory marked.
I decided I had better focus on the less fair, and less well-defended, sex.
“Excuse me,” I said to a chap. “I’m surveying the smokers here tonight.”
“No, I’m not doing any surveys.”
This gender seemed intent on defending itself.
“Oh, no, it’s not really a survey, I’m trying to write an article.”
“You got any gum?”
“Sorry.”
“Mints?”
“You meeting a girl or something?”
“That’s right.”
“She doesn’t know you smoke?”
“I don’t know … No, she doesn’t.”
“Did you meet her here tonight?”
“No comment. You’re taking notes in your head, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes, but don’t worry, I don’t know your name.”
“I’m Nick. What’s your name?”
“Anthony. Did you just give me your name to compromise my article?”
“Nick’s not my real name,” he said, rummaging for his cigarettes. “Shit, last one.”
He left in search of some gum. I marked him down as a lawyer.
No one offered me a cigarette all night, though I was quizzed on my own profession.
“What are you?” asked a real estate agent. “A journalist?”
“No, I’m a lawyer.”
“You should tell people you’re a journalist.”
“I’d prefer to be a writer.”
“Why don’t you be a writer then?”
“Most earn about five grand a year,” I said. “Sometimes I think law is one of the best-paid writing gigs going.”
“You should do what you love.”
“Like real estate, eh?”
Midnight came quickly. The DJ stopped playing and the lights went up. Young professionals started swigging out of the last bottles of wine. They streamed out with stolen balloons, and the last of the smokers gathered outside.
On the way out, I bumped into the quitting smoker whom I had met a week prior.
“How did you go?” I asked. “Did you smoke tonight?”
“I succumbed yesterday,” he said. “But I resisted tonight.”
“That’s a pity,” I said pocketing my notebook and pen. “You let the team down.”
Despite the quitter, I am ‘pleased’ to say the lawyers still ‘won’ the night with the following smoker score – accountants: one, bankers: two, event managers: one, real estate agents: two, lawyers: three.
While the (mostly younger than me) young professionals kicked on, I headed home, went online, made my own donation to the Royal Flying Doctors, then went to bed to sleep off all that passive smoke.