A man after my own heart wrote this. Sadly, whilst he joyously continued smoking to the end I have bowed to leperdom, fear and a hideous cough to quit my most demanding mistress, Nicotine. Six years now but I'll always be a smoker. From the first drag at fourteen I followed the gloriously cool and sophisticated pilgrimage to emphesema like so many others (hopefully I stopped in time but only time will tell how much damage I did). I'm jealous of anyone I see smugly sucking that satisfyingly illicit poison into their lungs, even in the movies. I want to tell youngsters not to succumb to such guilty pleasure but hideous hypocrisy gags me. In fact I think I'll take it up again when I turn 70 (if...). Pathetic indeed.
Anyway, this plaque (the poem is easier to read on this page) is to found at the foot of Rose Crescent on the wall of what used to be Bacon's Tobacconist until 1983. It's now a French Connection. Cookie-cutter chain clothing stores selling exactly the same clothes to everyone in the land; not as frequently fatal, true, but one misses choice...
