大象传媒

I can remember my mother telling me a couple of stories about the problems of being a smoker during the war.

The first one involved the newsagent's shop she passed on her way to work. Clement Atlee was a real hero of the owner and he cultivated his slight resemblance to the famous man.

My mum said that whenever she went in to buy anything, she made a point of commenting along the lines of "Oh, Mr Xxxxxx - I can't get over how like Mr Atlee you look. You look more like him every day. Are you sure you're not related? And variations on this theme.

Needless to say, whenever the shelves were bare of cigarettes, he always managed to find a packet of 10 for my mum under the counter from his supply for 'loyal customers'.

The second story was about how difficult it was to get cigarettes sometimes and how awful some of those available were.

The most horrible of all, she said, were a brand called 'Spanish Shawl'. They tasted like the sweepings from the factory floor and smelled like you were burning dead dogs on a garden bonfire. Or so she said.

One evening, she and some friends were queuing outside the cinema in Nottingham. The only cigarettes available they'd been able to find were the dreadful Spanish Shawl. They lit up in the queue, generating evil smelling clouds - much to the dismay of the other customers.

It must have been very bad because a couple of soldiers further down the line passed them a precious packet of Players saying they could keep them - just as long as they promised not to smoke the Spanish Shawls inside the cinema.

Not of any great significance I know. But I still find it hard to visulise my very proper mother flattering elderly newsagents with lies, smoking in the street or flirting with soldiers in cinema queues!

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