Someone I was working with bought a pipe in 1974. I tried it and got a feeling of calm and contentment. Each pipe is unique. Each smoke offers up a mysterious, ethereal pleasure. There's endless variety. And then there's the paraphernalia. The strike of the match, the sound, the flame, putting match to bowl.

The tradition makes me happy. Pipe smoking has the lineage of millions of ordinary men and great men. The romance of Sherlock Holmes, the jutting pipe of the sailors in the great wars, PG Wodehouse, Tennyson. Pipes lead to deeper thought. The experience lasts an hour or so, and just the filling of a pipe helps concentrate the mind.

A pipe brings a sort of reverie. Drinking smoke, they used to call it. You don't inhale, but let it drift around your mouth, let it dissipate in the air, smelling it as it disappears.

It's easy to attain happiness in life - easy if you know how. There will always be problems that collect throughout the day. For me, contentment is on the horizon. At this age I'm leaning towards stability. I've got a wonderful partner who likes the smell of tobacco, a good financial situation, a comfortable home. I've either lost or achieved my ambitions. All you need is your own quiet place to enjoy it.

My last pipe of the day is fabulous, sitting on the settee accompanied by my partner and a whiskey. That's contentment.