I don't mind the smell of cigarette smoke.

 

I know, I'm off to do my ten Hail Marys as soon as I have finished writing this. Well maybe some other form of penance may be more appropriate. Perhaps I should be forced to sweep up all the cigarette butts (or fag ends, as we call them in UK) outside a pub? Or maybe wipe the inside windows of one of those little smoking booths that they have at some airports. Well, you know what I mean.

Cro always used to say that she was so glad she gave up smoking back in 2003 because if she had waited much longer, the incessant demonisation of smoking would have kept her at it out of sheer cussedness. I believe her. And when I finally get her collection of poetry published (I hope before the end of this year) you will see that one of her poems was a lovely one called 'My life in fags', which was a paean of praise and love to all the fags that had accompanied her through the nearly 30 years that she smoked. 

Now I am not for one moment encouraging people to smoke. It has provably terrible effects on your health and Cro, as I do not need to remind people, died of lung cancer. It is much better for your health not to smoke rather than to smoke. If you are already a smoker, then giving up will help a lot (though not offer complete absolution pace Cro). All round, it is a terrible habit. I used to have to visit an asthma doctor when I was younger and I remember Dr White saying to me in the mid-seventies "Smoking. Hmm, I would strongly advise you to take up other vices". So that's a doctor advising me to take up vices was my take-away from that. But I never did smoke, bar the odd spliff.

So I am not advising people to smoke. Not at all. But I can fully understand why people do smoke, quite apart from the strong chemical addiction. If you are at your wit's end, a fag is a nice bit of 'me time'. If you are home from work and you want to signal the changeover, that ritual fag can be very relaxing. If you are in company with other smokers, the ritual exchange of ciggies is a nice bonding. And even now people tell me that the best company and conversation in any pub is in the clutch of people getting their nicotine fix somewhere 20 feet from the door. When Cro and I were travelling around China after she had given up I occasionally had to 'take one for the team' by pretending to smoke the cigarette that had been offered in such a 'Gastfreundlich' way by a fellow-traveller on a sleeper train. 

But I don't mind the smell of other people's cigarette smoke, especially if it looks like they are enjoying themselves. And if it comes to Gauloises or Havana cigars, I actively enjoy the smell of them. I do admit that I did not like the smell of the upstairs of a Bradford bus in the 70s on a wet winter night when all the windows were shut and the fug of smoke started to curdle a bit, but generally, a passing whiff or even the smell of an outdoor terrace in Paris doesn't bother me at all. 

And in all discussions of passive smoking dangers there are a couple of things to remember. One is that all the ostentatious hand-flapping that some people engage in when they pass a smoker outside is really a bit OTT. You are probably getting much more toxic material from the road that you have been walking along. Do you flap your hands madly when a car passes you too? There is a slightly self-righteous joy in being morally right and therefore making an arse of yourself. Also, if you are going to complain about the rather limited danger of some outdoor secondhand smoke, have you examined every other aspect of your environment to see what else you should complain about? Have you complained about your employer making you sit down at a computer? (go check: prolonged sitting is demonstrably and epidemiologically-proven to harm your health in the long term). Are you an equal-opportunity complainer, or are you just targeting the silver wraiths? Did you perhaps use to be a smoker?

And frankly, having just watched the entire Netflix version of Ripley (which I thoroughly recommend), filmed in Black and White and with smoking a central part of the 'zeitgeist' (as well as not unincidental to a murder or two), I have developed a rosy glow towards smoking. And towards Sicily, where Ripley ends up. You may recall (where have you been if you don't?) that Angie and I spent a lovely two weeks mainly in Palermo, where people smoke with gusto and enthusiasm. And I didn't mind a bit of it. 

There. Off to do my confession now.