Pubs are a major part of my life.
So many memories bound up in the dusty wooden interiors of tap rooms where spirits have helped men to see things slightly askew.
I collect pubs.
What I keep are the inns that my Great Grandfather would feel at home in. Although of course, he'd be in for a shock if he was to come back from the great public bar in the sky and try and roll up a cigarette.
The battered Old Holborn tin would come out of his waist-coat pocket. Maybe no-one would notice. Or maybe someone would look on in horror as if he'd just laid a line of cocaine on the bar.
The dark tobacco would be rolled between his thumb and fingers before being trickled into the Rizla.
By this stage, someone would be sure to say, 'excuse me Sir. You can't do that in here.'
To which, once he'd had his attention drawn to the unbelievable No Smoking sign, Gramps would reply, 'why not? I've been dead forty years. It never did me any harm.'