The other day we passed a church which had one of those signs that the parson can change by moving transparent plastic letters. There are signs like that all over the place here. To tell someone "It's just beyond the church" would be useless because sometimes there are nothing but churches.

Anyway, this sign said: "Come Redemption, where will you be seated: smoking or non-smoking" and I thought it rather clever.

I've never been sure there's a Hell and so I smiled and rode on. That evening I found that Hell exists.

I won't add further to the town's tears by naming it. Let's just call it Hell.

The road through Hell is a six-lane divided highway - a dual-carriageway if you're British - with a service road running parallel on each side. The service road fronts all those neon-lit, primary-colour, flag-and-glitter places that no American town can do without. But in this case the town has gone for it in a big way. A Big Way. It was a glory of soulless, spend-your-money-and-go consumerism. You didn't even need to get out of your car; it was quicker and cheaper to keep you in your car, let you poke your credit card into a machine that beeped and flashed, then send you on your way with your money left behind you.

And so all these people had to be instructed, guided, corrected and cajoled. Every 50 metres there was the tearing noise one side of car tyres on cement and, on the other, yet another metallic, sing-song voice saying "Move to pump six, hun" and "Bay three, your service is ready" and "That'll be an extra three dollars fifty, sir". Horrible voices from hard, faceless people sitting in central control booths and directing the lives of others through two-inch loudspeakers.

One day, it will be like that for all of us. All of those whose lives have placed them in Smoking, anyway.