In yesterday’s Guardian, there was a literally smokin’ hot piece lpiece by David Hockney (because our greatest living artist was pictured wreathed happily in cigarette smoke to accompany the piece) inveighing against the smoking ban.
I read and enjoyed the article, and thought Hockney made a reasonable point, that smoking does not necessarily lead to certain death, can be very enjoyable, and more to the point in his case, is important for his mental health.
Now, in the piece, Davod Hockney (whose book of portraits I had been looking at only the day before, fancy!) said he lived in California in such style and amplitude that the smoking ban on public places didn’t really effect him one way or the other.
Well, blow me down. This morning, as I took my dog for a walk in Holland Park, (one of the few public open spaces in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, most of the greenery and garden squares are strictly private) and I was ambling down the broadwalk bit that connects to Ken High, and I saw a man on a bench.
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