O Rolling Tobacco, Rolling Tobacco, Wherefore art thou Rolling Tobacco?

A day to kill in Stratford-Upon-Avon. I'm really not afraid to kill the odd Friday. It will always plead with me, "Oh Adrian, please don't kill me. I've so much to offer the world. So much to give." But, as always, I'll hear him out and mull over the plea for a few seconds, whilst rolling chewing gum round my mouth, before delivering a deadly karate chop to the weak spot in his windpipe.

So, what to do? Stratford-Upon-Avon is steeped in history as the birthplace of one very special man - Avon from Blake's 7. I'm joculating of course. He was actually born in Surrey. I mean, of course, William Shakespeare - the man who invented plays and words like 'doth' and 'resembleth'.

There's plenty to see of him around the town. His house. His mum's house. His favourite tree. His Great Aunty's fossil collection. His nephews pet tortoise (still alive and residing in a granny flat overlooking the river). Thing is, it's half-term and as such there's quite a bit of hustle and bustle. The unpleasant aura of sulky children who wished they'd been taken to Alton Towers instead. I need to take solace. Get some peace and quiet. Harmony.

So instead of hanging out in one of Shakespeares old haunts I go where no sulky child will venture - the tobacconists. Here I purvey the strange antiquated parafinalia and, of course, the charming plethora of flavoured tobaccos - vanilla, coconut, cinnamon, toffee, cumquat, Ovaltine, Guinea Fowl, Berocca...

A middle-aged lady walks in and briskly orders 20 Silk Cut. This makes me chuckle. All that choice at her yellow fingertips and she goes for 20 Silk Cut? She's served by a young gentleman barely old enough to smoke himself. I must say, I did expect the proprietor to be a spectacled 60 year old gent, weasel-like with a moving front tooth and plenty of nasal hair dressed in an old-fashioned yet natty suit.

After milling about in there for quite a long time, including a phone call to Jason King and a little daydream about being seven once again and not knowing what sex means, I thought I should purchase 250 grams of vanilla shag and make an exit.

I will probably be berated for visiting Stratford-Upon-Avon and spending my time here in a tobacconist. But these places will probably become a thing of the past well before Shakespeare's tourist spots pop their clogs.