Saturday night, 1980s Pretoria. The cinema screen comes to life, triumphant music heralds realities way beyond my land-locked ken. Surfskis. Glittering Monte Carlo streets. Tight, sun-washed linen shorts and deck shoes, catamarans and golden skin. Golden tobacco too, sending elegant curls of vapour skywards as the sun rose, or set, or cocktails were served.
For decades, dastardly Big Tobacco sold dreams as efficiently as any Apple or Nike. Their aspirational domain, wisely chosen, was international travel - still a way off the indignities of mass transit as we know it today.
At a very impressionable
