A poignant memory from childhood got me reflecting, in a way that seems radically counter-cultural, on just how beautiful cigarettes can be.
It happened during a visit to my mother when I told her how vividly I recall her and my dad taking turns to come to my bedroom at night when I was a small boy and writing my name large in the darkened air with the lit tip of a cigarette.
That was, for me, a brilliant experience, and one that occurred almost nightly.

The ritual went like this: each night I would hear my mum, Teresa, or my late dad, Kevin, climb the stairs of our redbrick terraced house in Wigan, Lancashire, knock and enter my bedroom to check that I was okay and the light was off etc.
Invariably, I was not asleep so they would tuck me in, chat to me for a while, give me a kiss, and say good night.
The light would then be switched off, bringing a heavy-curtained darkness to the room.
Then mum (or dad) would take a big drag on their cig (mum smoked Woodbines, dad Senior Service) so that the end would be burning brightly.
Next they would write out my name in the air, “Stephen” (never “Steve” in those days), so that it burned intensely in the darkness like a neon sign but better, purer.
It was an act of love, of course, and it worked a delightful charm on me.
I guess, also, it confirmed me in my identity and made me feel safe in a world that did not seem all that safe or happy to the troubled little soul that was me in 1960-63.
I’ve never forgotten their cig-signature routine. I’m sure I would have repeated it with my children if I’d been blessed with any.
It set me thinking about the allure of smoking and all the good, comforting experiences I’ve had with cigarettes over the years – and about how persecuted smokers are made to feel these days in most western nations.
I say all of this in the knowledge that smoking most certainly does damage health, though I suspect its role has been exaggerated. Please hear me out ...
As someone born in and still resident in (for all its trials and tribulations) Britain, I miss more painfully than I can say the glamorous, mysterious, poetic atmosphere of traditional pubs – sanctified, as they were for centuries, by plumes of gently twisting cigarette smoke.
In the not-so-distant past, whenever joy, love, passion or the simple poetic magic of life would be played out in the room of some humble backstreet pub, as often they would be, then the ciggie smoke would be the incense that purified the mystery and beauty of humans gathered in public solidarity.
Anyone who has seen the gorgeous BBC1 TV sitcom “Early Doors” will know how elegant and artistically pleasing cig smoke can be.
The glamour of cigarette smoking most certainly did not stop with Paul Henreid lighting up smokes for Bette Davis in “Now Voyager”.
And I think it was wrong of the authorities in the UK in recent years to have banned smoking from pubs, cafes and restaurants (among other workplaces).
Health is not the only issue. Freedom, comfort, pleasure and beauty are considerations too.
A reasonable argument could be made that freedom is infinitely more important to people than proscriptive health laws handed down by governments.
Philosophically speaking, the State that thinks it can eliminate risk entirely from the lives of its citizens – especially by trampling over long-held pleasures and traditions – risks alienating a large section of the public.
The smoking ban as it has been applied throughout the UK has been nasty with totalitarian overtones, including the putting up of big, ugly, prohibitive signs in all places of employment.
And the fact that old and frail people, who have enjoyed a smoke and the company or friends in the pub all through their adult lives, have now had that pleasure snatched away from them is cruel.
In Britain, the smoking ban has meant that many old people have simply stopped going to the pub altogether.
They have effectively been forced by the State into social isolation. How good for their health will that be?
And the few hardy senior citizens who insist on still venturing out to their local bars must often stand outside in wind and cold just to have a comforting cigarette.
I often drive past such scenes on the pitiless, rain-lashed pavements of Liverpool – and it saddens me, it really does. It touches my heart.

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