When I wrote about smoking a few weeks ago, I may have failed to mention that I smoke cigars. Was it Oscar Wilde who said something about consistency being the last refuge of the unimaginative? Anyway, I was in Catlins yesterday buying a cigar. It felt deliciously naughty, which is probably what I like. I’m not a frequent smoker, one a year maybe, and I probably smoke them ineptly, but it’s the smell I love. Reminds me of late evenings with my dad, him trying to lure me into a discussion about the appalling demise of good grammar, drinking whisky, the tickings of the motley Chaplin clock collection in the background, all telling different times. I asked advice in Catlins as to which cigar to buy. I admitted that when I started smoking them as a teenager, the point was how I looked; taste didn’t really come into it, so something Cuban was going to be wasted. My taste in food and wine has developed since then, but I’m a long way from being a cigar aficionado with a humidor. Looking at a cigar website, it seems cigar buffs are assumed to be men. The links are about gaming, how to give power handshakes, and the successful pursuit of wild women. As it happens, I’m fond of playing poker with firm-handed wild women myself from time to time. Apparently Churchill received a call from Dunhill cigar company during the bombing of London, saying: ‘Your cigars are safe, sir’. Cigars eh? Preposterously phallic, but rather fun. Even women can smoke them. Sound like a good advertising jingle? I left Catlins with a red-wrapped Henri Wintermans Slim, 89p.