It's this kind of thing that gives smoking a good name. I was waiting outside a bakery in St Étienne (Shelley and Anne were inside, working their French to buy us some delicious treats) when an old man toddled up to the door smoking his pipe.I could feel his pain. It went something like this:
Smoking outside ... pastries inside ... smoking outside ... pastries inside ...
So he rested his pipe on the ledge outside and trotted on in - a perfect balance of smoking and pastry life.
