Finns love a fag. They are everywhere. Smoking hot, even in freezing cold, sleet and snow. Everyone smokes. Kids, grandads, builders, office workers - you name it, they smoke it. Given the drinking culture in London, I would expect more of my friends there to sneak out for a cigarette after a few too many G&T's but I honestly can't think of more than two people I know in London who smoke and even they only do so occasionally. Here you can't seem to get away from the (filthy) stuff.
The topic of smoking in your own back yard or private balcony has long dominated the local newspaper columns with smokers obviously ranting about their right to do whatever they please in or outside their own home and the anti-gang raving about the dangers of passive smoking and the disgusting smell. Having grown up in a smoking family, it's no surprise to me that neither my brother nor I have taken up the habit. I tried so hard to like the taste but trying a cigarette twice in my life was twice too many. And don't worry, I am not going to get on my high horse and start shouting health warnings and attaching photos of cancer ridden lungs here - each to their own. Anything can give you cancer these days. But living in a block of flats and having smokers as neighbours is pretty annoying. The smell does get in, and I can smell it in my lounge. So much for the right to do whatever you please in your own home.
Cast your mind to 1998. Or if it doesn't stretch that far, even 2004. Remember walking in to a bar and thinking "It smells like a brewery in here"? No, didn't think so. The wall of grey cigarette smoke would greet you at the door like an old friend, masking any vomit inducing smells lurking in the floorboards and on the slightly sticky tables. And once you emerged back out in the real world, your old friend would catch a lift with you and stay overnight unless you showered in industrial strength soap when you got home. The smell of stale cigarette smoke must be one to of the most awful smells to wake up to. That and vomit.
These days you can indeed smell the spilled beer when you walk into a pub. Those of you familiar with the grand establishment that is the Henry Addington at the Wharf will know that when the pungent stench of spilled Stella mixed with the aniseed aroma of Sambuca hits the back of your throat as soon as you walk in, it can make you nostalgic about the good old days before the smoking ban. But in the one day of summer London gets every year, when everyone wants to enjoy their Pimms outside while working on their non-existent tans, it's the smokers that win the battle and the rest of us just have to swallow the smoke. But when it's -30c in Finland and the smokers put on their ski wear, gloves and hats to enjoy their nicotine hit outside in their smoking "prison", I can't help but feel that the non-smokers have won the war.
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