One of my earliest memories is of sitting with my father, trying to get my finger through smoke rings he created while puffing on his pipe. It was a game we played, he and I. He doesn't smoke any more and in fact I don't otherwise remember him smoking. Memory is an odd thing.

I remember traveling with my mother and sisters on a train. The train car was arbitrarily separated half way down, by a behind-the-seat partition so that one half was designated for smokers. Unfortunately our family were in the seats just to one side of that partition, on the other side was a portly gentleman chain-smoking cigars. Odour most foul! But he seemed oblivious to our (I'm sure) more than blatant coughs and hand waving etc.

Today I find myself getting ticked off by having to encounter second hand smoke while walking outside. How our world has changed!