Never smelling of smoke

Now that's a blessing. Anne came home from visiting a tenant yesterday stinking of fags, and I realised I couldn't actually remember the last time that had happened to me.

That's really changed in our lifetime. First planes, then trains, then buses, then restaurants and finally betting shops and pubs became places you could go and then actually wear the same clothes the next day. Or at least pick them off the floor without wanting to vomit.

When I started office work in Bristol smoking was allowed - The chain-smoking Mandy Worsley used to walk around the place with an ashtray; then it became an "outside core time activity"; then only allowed in the "smoking room" aka Dantes inferno before being banished for good.

My mum's old maisonette was on the first and second floor and you had to go up a flight of stairs inside to get to the flat proper. A layer of smoke used to hang halfway down the stairs, and you had to take a symbolic deep breath before entering fug-world for the duration. Now even she only smokes outside.

Apologies to all smokers who have been hunted to virtual extinction, and yes I realise they'll be coming after the fat and drunk next...