Just watch the smoke rings rise in the air. You'll find your share of memories there.

It was on a Monday, a smidgen after sunrise, and I was sitting in the bus shelter contemplating, as you do, the week that stretched before me. What cheered me that warm January morn was the pungent smell of fresh air.

She came out of a house near by, ambled to the side of the bus shelter and lit up a fag.

I was down wind and the stink of smoke assaulted my nostrils. I sat there for a while feeling somewhat miffed, as you do.

Then I told her how her smoke was intruding into my zone. She backed off well away from the bus stop, and all was once again, as they say, well with the world and my snout.


One of the joys of being in running and walking clubs is that no one (at least to the best of my knowledge) smokes. Drink - yes; smoke - no.

I detest the smell of cigarette smoke. I feel sorry for smokers. There is no more pathetic a sight in the whole universe than a lonely soul hovering outside of a building having a fast drag on a fag.

They say (whoever they is) that addiction to Nick O'teen is the worst of addictions. I can't imagine what it is like to wake up in the morning, mouth like a well worn jock strap, wheezing and coughing, craving for that first fag.