The vanilla looked like the toffee, the blueberry smelled like the peach.
The Burley brought on coughing, and slightly impeded my speech.
The cherry made me nauseous; the mint set my throat on fire.
The banana was delectable and sang just like a choir.
The apple was rather mellow, the strawberry made me blush.
The coconut was exquisite; I think I’ve got a crush.
Pipes to distinguish a gentleman, tins to store the snuff,
It’s easy to start a love affair with the fragrant, smoky stuff.
Do yourself a favour, walk up Charing Cross Road.
Pick yourself a flavour and unwind where I once strode.
Happiness may be an illusion, nothing but mirrors and mist.
Yet life’s sweet-smelling tobaccos are impossible to resist.
Last year I discovered an ’Aladdin’s Cave’ of aromatic, hand-rolling tobacco in central London.
Like a child in a sweet shop I opened every cannister, comparing each blend, utterly overwhelmed by the huge choice of different smells and grades of leaf.
Having become disillusioned with the heavily moisturised and biting brands on the market, I was ecstatic to stumble upon this gem of a shop.
Since switching to aromatic tobacco my daily intake has dramatically decreased, mainly due to the ability to savour on a deeper level the experience of smoking good quality leaf.
I now feel fully satisfied after a smoke, revelling in the tastes that linger on my palate and leaning back into the arms of relaxation.