SINCE my heart attack scare after strolling up a small hill last week, I have stopped smoking.

I don’t know how long this will last, because my top three thoughts right now are the Teen’s looming GCSE’s, rolling a cigarette and my rather large energy bill.

After hollering at the Teen to crack on with her chemistry revision for what seemed like several hours over the weekend, all I could think about was how much happier I would be if I could save my breath for blowing out Swan Vestas.

The last time I stopped was a couple of years ago when the Teen and I caught the 21st century version of the Black Death (we had Real Flu, not a bad cold).

A string of family and friends had to come and attend to us for two weeks because we were unable to move, open our eyes or eat. I couldn’t muster the strength to fetch a glass of water let alone inhale a lungful of smoke.

Unfortunately, by the time I perked up, my smoking habit had surfaced. Fail.

Now I am sitting here with a 25mg nicotine patch glued on my arm, sucking a 4mg nicotine lozenge desperately wanting a puff of Golden Virginia or a Marlboro Light.

I need an electronic smoking device, a hypnotist or someone to kiss to get me through this craving.

I’m a bit lightheaded to tell you the truth.

And my mind has started to play tricks on me.

These are the reasons I want to stop smoking: 

  • I don’t want to die 
  • I don’t want a horrible disease and die 
  • I don’t want wrinkles
  • I have yellow, ugly staining on my beautiful hands

This is what my mind is now telling me:

  • I may not die if I smoke 
  • I may not get a horrible disease 
  • I use pricey face cream and factor 100 sunblock; if that doesn’t work there is Botox
  • I could try sugar soap or a harsher abrasive

See how ingenious my mind is when it’s telling me to smoke? GRRRR.

I will grin and bear this agony for the moment and tell myself that I am not giving up; I am simply stretching out the time between puffs.

In the meantime I need something else to do.

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