So there is not much call, these days, for ashtrays.
When I was a child though, ashtrays were an important part of life. My mothers, mock cut-glass, festooned with Players No. 6 filter tips, my fathers, brass, littered with untipped Woodbine dog ends. The photo at the top isn't my mother's ashtray, but one that lived on my father's table and was never used. The one he did use is now in Chertsey's back cabin, serving as decorative brassware.
My parents were both heavy smokers, but at the same time warned us very strongly against the habit. I understood the concept of addiction from a very early age. Neither my sister or I ever smoked, but while she grew up into a zealous anti-smoker, I have always retained a fondness for it, and a certain respect - admiration, even - for those who do what I don't dare to. I don't mind second hand smoke, and if a smoker visits me, I'll offer them that ashtray. But they'll insist on going outside, to do their penance.
Cups of tea so far this February: 22
Online meetings so far this February: 7