On my way into work each morning I pass an unlovely concrete spot at the back entrance of the Financial Times where the building’s last surviving smokers can still have a quiet fag.
It is years since I have felt the urge to join them but I was up against such a nasty deadline not long ago that I cadged a cigarette from one of the few people I know who still smokes and headed outside.
A man I had never met before offered a light and, as we puffed away companionably, he started telling me about his job in some distant part of the building where people worked on FT conferences and events.
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