THE Smoking Wars are burning in this household. I live with a man who smokes a cigar sitting in a canvas chair in the middle of a wheat field. He goes there in search of grey partridges, birdsong and solitude. If he lived with a more tolerant woman, he would smoke his cigar (Upmann Majestic from James J. Fox, origin Cuba, length 5½in, minimum smoking time 30 minutes and totalmente a mano—totally handmade) in the peace and freedom of his home.
Bold letters inside his box of cigars should drown out the song of the skylarks: , but, as this man is no Al Pacino (a new dad
