Shameful residue of last night's party. It-the-shisha demands a space on the table even when the mountain of dirty plates and empty wine bottles have been cleared away. I was amazed to see it arrive in an ominous black plastic bag; apparently they deliver it with one's preferred flavor (apple, in our case, although taste was questionable) with soot, flicker, pipe, etc. We nourished good old Korean chung through huffing and puffing clouts of apple smoke into the room talking, laughing, and teasing.

Considering how much depraved fun we had with this device(?) last night, this morning the shisha's prestige plummeted to being an object of scorn and disgust. We could stand neither the sight nor the smell. It had to go. Alas, the fate of the once glorious shisha: put in a bag and pushed to the very far corner of the room till its keeper comes and collects. How lamentably versatile of a social position the shisha has. And how unabashedly fickle of us to create such a reputation.