In the good old healthful days when children spent many hours outdoors, one of the great joys as a 10-year-old was lighting up a cigarette and walking around at one's ease. I lived on a farm and would wander up to a mean and dirty village on the highway to buy my cigarettes at the local shop and post office.

The woman who ran the shop had a face that was getting bigger every day because her kidneys were failing. She took Bex powders to ease the pain, ignoring the fact it was the Bex sending her back to God. But she was a responsible sort, in her own way, and always asked if the cigarettes were for my father. Oh yes, I said. One day I lit up as soon as I was out the door. I stood under her awning, looking at the highway, marvelling at how fast the cars went through the little town, when the woman came out and asked: "Are you one of the Elder boys?"

I blew a little smoke ring and said I was. She said oh good: she had a package for my mother. I could take it with me.

Around this time, I joined the Scouts. One weekend, on a bivouac, the Scout Master crept into our tent, which was very crowded because it was the smoking tent. He lined us up and made us smoke three cigarettes in a row, sucking the smoke down to our toes. You've seen it in movies, right? So much gasping and spluttering and eventual vomiting? Some of the boys went that way. But the rest of us were buzzed. At last someone had taught us how to really smoke.