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I drove about two yards and stopped again. I couldn't see a thing because someone had lit a bonfire of old Michelins in the car somewhere. What's more, the blazing log in my right hand wouldn't go out no matter how vigorously I waved it about.

You might imagine that the clever thing to do here would be to lower the Boxster's roof, which can be operated at speeds of up to about 30mph. But I couldn't because it's winter, I'm 43 and smoking a big cigar in a Porsche, and people would think I was a complete pillock.

I opened the window instead and made scooping hand movements, of the sort used to hurry children across the road, in order to expel the worst of the appalling pall.

I remembered a smoking colleague whose method had been opening the window two inches and setting the ventilation fan at medium speed. That way, the exhaled smoke would be plucked from the cabin and trailed in my wake like the product of some catastrophic cylinder-head failure. He was right.

The ashtray is on the left in UK-spec Porsches but I often missed, so the roles of the ashtray and the rest of the interior were effectively reversed, the ashtray remaining spotless but the remainder of the cabin knee-deep in embers. Then, the hand-held mobile phone rang.

"I'm sorry, I can't talk at the moment," I said. "I'm smoking."

I settled down to a relaxed rhythm of smoking and driving, steering the Porsche with my left hand and the stogie with my right.

What's more, I drove slowly, at peace, and at those junctions requiring a split-second decision, I invariably decided to wait and enjoy a few extra puffs on the Bolivar, revelling in the aromatic fug of my own making. All I needed to complete the experience was the music from the Hamlet ad.

In fact, I think I'm right in saying that the in-car cigar is the single greatest advance in active road safety since the invention of the windscreen wiper. Smokers of the world, ignite.