In a puff of smoke.
Cigar boxes are objects of delight. The aesthetic pleasure has been dented by the ugly health warnings that are applied to them— or, as I should say, the health warnings that are applied to them in an ugly manner. Difficult now to regard the labels with unadulterated joy, although I have a collection of old ones in a frame somewhere. But nothing can replace the promise of the smell, cedarwood spiced with the unmentionable weed (I hardly dare risk offending the thought police by writing the non-word tobacco). Empty boxes, when I had them, were given to the children; an example of appalling parenting, because the naked nail with which boxes are invariably closed— Cuba still being in a state of primitive innocence as regards fastenings—is an obvious hazard.
Oh, joy! William, 19, opened one of them recently to find a whole layer of previously unsmoked Montecristo No 2s. They were 10 years old. Fortunately, the cupboard in which they’d been kept was damp enough to be a humidor. They emerged in perfect condition, improved—like so many things, I find these days—with age. They’ve now disappeared, in appreciative puffs of smoke, but I still have the Por Larrañagas that I was given at Christmas left to savour. Now, where did I put the box?
Town mouse visits Gas School Wood
Town mouse visits a wood created in memory of the First World War.
Town mouse enjoys an abundance of festive food
Town mouse enjoys the seasonal culinary delights.
Town mouse visits Leighton House
Town mouse admires the beautiful paintings hung in Leighton House.
Town mouse remembers the First World War
Town mouse discovers a brilliant new blog.
