. Just now, about ten minutes ago, when paying for a bottle of red wine, I noticed behind the cash register a somewhat forbidden looking black wall divided by many compartments.

On closer inspection while getting the change, I noticed that they were actually compartments hiding packets of cigarettes. The names and prices were written in white on this black wall together with the number of cigarettes in each division of those hidden cigarettes. All of a sudden I was becoming somewhat overwhelmed by remembering the cigar.

 In times past, a tobacco shop held an enormous attraction for me. When I was very young back in Holland I started the forbidden pleasure of smoking, perhaps at the age of twelve or so. From hollowed acorns and grass helms, I and friends fashioned a smoking device and smoked. It soon developed in smoking cigarettes.

 At that time the smoke shop was a heaven for scents and pleasures. Those displays of all that, with racks of pipes and boxes of cigars and the fact the kind shop owner used to sell ciggies single, I remember still so fondly.

 The image of my dad, who would on special occasions, got a cigar which he used to prepare with great skill and patience. The cutting of the end and the snipping of the front part with a special knife, a special ritual. The aroma of our house with this cigar heralded an almost festive day coming on. Everything was alright for that day, things were going fine and all were happy.

 All that is gone now, there is now just a black wall and stern signs.