Back in my 20s, I was a regular “party smoker”, sparking up on a night out with friends, or heading outside for a cheeky fag during a raucous dinner party. Smoking was part of the ritual of going out, whether it was having “pre-drinks” with friends or lighting up after the first pint; there was something releasing about the heady rush of the first inhale; the satisfaction of that stream of smoke that made the inevitably worse hangover of the next day worth it.
It was the sunshine that did it. Something about the warm summer afternoon, a buzz of conversation in the air and the prospect of an evening with friends in the garden ahead sent me into the newsagents to come out with something I haven’t bought for a good 15 years or so: a packet of cigarettes.