The Scribbler's first thought upon entering the snug of the Boilermaker's Arms was that if only he could get the hang of that mobile phone that Thelma insisted he carry he would be able to call the fire brigade and hopefully save the lives of his friends who were undoubtedly about to expire in the fearsome blaze that had gripped the snug.

Half a beat later, and with the recognisable smell assaulting his nostrils, your humble correspondent realised that it wasn't a fire in the pub at all, but the fug of a rather excessive - by anyone's standards - amount of cigarette smoke.

Putting his handkerchief over his mouth, The Scribbler battled through the pea-souper to the bar, where he was stopped in his tracks by a fearsome black shape looming out of the mist.

"Hnflloo Snfcribfflcler," snuffled the thing like a nightmarish black pig. Had the work experience been putting LSD in the water fountain again at the T&A, The Scribbler wondered, before Boris the Landlord took off the old rubber gasmask and said again: "Hello, Scribbler."

"Boris," gasped The Scribbler as the barman poured him a refreshing pint of Old Enraptured Ragamuffin. "What's going on here?"

At Boris's side Daphne the venerable barmaid materialised, puffing on a luxury-length Peter Stuyvesant. "It's the last day before the smoking ban hits," she said. "So we thought we'd have a fag party."

"It's a pity EMC isn't here," muttered The Scribbler, referring to the ebullient owner of the Boilermaker's, Exeter Montgomery Cashew, who had gone to Hollywood to make his fortune as an actor. Then he said: "But Daphne, you don't even smoke."

"No," she shrugged, taking another puff. "But I do so hate to miss out on a party. Besides, Graham was feeling a bit down so I thought I'd cheer him up a bit."

Graham the Gasman was the real hardcore smoker of the group, a man who had been known to get through an entire packet of Woodbines while installing a new boiler. Which probably accounted for his lack of Corgi registration.

Through the fog The Scribbler saw Graham, slumped in the corner and chainsmoking cigarettes two at a time. He accepted his pint from Boris and walked over to him.

"It's a bleedin' liberty, is what it is," said Graham morosely when The Scribbler sat down. "I just don't know what I'm going to do. It's my only pleasure in life."

"Rubbish," said The Scribbler. He himself was a reformed smoker and couldn't stand the things now. "You'll soon get used to the idea. It's the perfect opportunity to quit."

Graham looked at him, aghast. "You mean stop smoking?"

The Scribbler nodded. "Take it from me, it's a revelation. You can taste your food again. You can breathe deeply. You'll be fitter." He lowered his voice. "And you'll have more energy for... you know. A bit of the other."

"Oh, God," moaned Graham. "That all sounds horrendous. You haven't had my wife's cooking, Scribs. Or smelled her feet. Or seen her at bedtime. I'm more than happy the way I am."

"Well, you're just going to have to get used to it, I'm afraid," said The Scribbler as sympathetically as possible. "You need to think of another hobby. Something that'll take your mind off it."

"I know," said Doris Thrope, known to one and all as "The Happy Medium". The Scribbler hadn't even been aware she was sitting beside him in the smoke. "Knitting!"

"Knitting?" said Graham doubtfully.

"Yes," said Doris. "It keeps your hands busy and is constructive. Here, have a go."

She delved into her carpet bag and handed Graham two needles and a ball of wool, then began showing him how to do it.

"Tomorrow this place will be completely smoke free," said Daphne from the bar. "I suppose it's the end of an era."

They contemplated this for a moment, the only sound the clacking of Graham's needles. "Knit one, purl one," he muttered, then chucked his needles on the table and reached for his fags. "Light up. I'll quite after this one, everybody. And you can all expect a scarf for Christmas."