Ahead of the bank holiday, I took a seat off Piccadilly for coffee and a smoke outside only to be joined by a seemingly agitated lady who struggled to settle and fussed excessively over her newspaper. Here we go, I thought; hassle about the smoke coming up. Except after a few more minutes of mutterings she turned to me, now seemingly placated, and said how calming she found the smell of cigars, which, the lady maintained, wonderfully never seemed to leave your clothes smelling of smoke (er, up to a point, I think). It seemed rude not to respond so I thanked her for her thoughts and suggested that many folk affectionately associate the aroma with parents or grandparents. You are right, she replied. This applied both to her own father and grandfather. The former, she said, was a keen smoker. Indeed he makes a habit every month of visiting a lifelong friend, now anchored at home, to give him a Cohiba...............which the friend, apparently well into his nineties, then crunches up for his pipe!  

I think one of the pleasures of being a cigar smoker is the tolerance of that constituency to the habits of others.