Subject: RE: Smokers in clubs
From: Jack Campin - PM
Date: 14 Apr 14 - 06:18 PM

The level of contact with smoke from someone smoking in the street must be miniscule

I'll stand in rain or snow rather than share a bus shelter or doorway with somebody doing it."
hilarious, it sounds like you would be happy to die of pneumonia, in your fight against the perfidious cigarette smoke.it reminds me of the song lumley kettlewell Who used a potter's crate as a bed in the company of ducks, geese, a fox and other animals?

A citizen of York named Lumley Kettlewell, the son of a Mr. Richard Kettlewell, a prosperous farmer of Bolton Percy.

He was born at Clementhorpe in 1741, and although given education, culture and the material means to provide a life of ease and tastes of a gentleman, chose an existence which was not only eccentric but squalid, sordid and degrading.

Kettlewell was a man of delicate build and was gentle and refined in manner, yet although in possession of the qualities and means which might have given him admission to the drawing-room and fashionable salon, Kettlewell sought a way of life which was, to say the least, extraordinary.

He eschewed the costume of the conventional and respectable, appearing on the streets of York in a tattered ballroom coat, a fur cap and hussar boots, or wearing a high-crowned hat and old oilskin coat.

Throughout his life Kettlewell kept fine bloodstock horses and game-dogs, the poor creatures usually starving to death as a result of neglect.

His house, the front door of which he kept strongly barred, was entered by means of a ladder which gave entrance to the first floor.
His living quarters consisted of one room in which he passed the hours of slumber in a potter's crate stuffed with hay.
The chamber was shared with dogs, a fox, muscovy ducks and a Maltese ass, which poor creatures usually terminated their existence as a result of neglect and starvation.

Kettlewell in spite of his very meagre existence, was careless of his money, leaving it in any odd corner and littered over the window seats, much of it, being in the form of banknotes, being devoured by the rats which overran the place.

In spite of a seeming difference in the way of fellows, Kettlewell had a strong sense of humour and was regarded as a man whose word was his bond.
He never indulged in a quarrel or calumny and never broke a promise.

Nothing delighted him more than an intellectual discussion, particularly concerning natural history and chemistry.
He never received visitors, which is hardly surprising, but would spend hours in the houses of educated and thoughtful persons, discussing scientific and philosophical subjects for hours on end.

In warm weather, Kettlewell would carry a large sponge on his person, dipping it occasionally in water and placing it on the top of his head, remarking that such a method of cooling oneself was the equal of food and drink.

His diet was a curious one and he regarded the heads of cocks as a particular delicacy.
Unfortunately for the creatures in his care, his dietetic theories did not prove beneficial to them and he wrote of his favourite horse, "As soon as the beast grew accustomed to living without food, it died."

Kettlewell died in 1819 in conditions of poverty and degredation, and having left his mark as one of the oddest characters Yorkshire has ever known.