Cigarettes, cigarettes, cigarettes, cigarettes……….

Just one rotton cold and suprise, suprise, I’ve lost my voice – again.

Now I don’t know, but there could be the tiniest possibility of a link between that and all the cigarettes it is my habit to consume on a daily basis. Us smokers can be rather clever at hiding sad truths from ourselves ; and my relationship with the evil weed is certainly a case in point.

The trouble is, I just love smoking. There, said it, what can I do ?

I read somewhere that folk who get hooked young have a much harder time kicking the habit (and I cling to that idea like a drowning man to a styrofoam cup 😦 ) Though, trying for a little objectivity, the idea does have some merit. ‘Thanks’ to the generous pocket money of a loving grandad, I tasted my first ciggy at eleven, was on ten a day at thirteen and a pack by fifteen. That key period of self discovery/construction was lived with a fag in hand.

As a bit of an arty kid with pretentious leanings, I was into the golden age of cinema, punk rock and (yes, even back then) french culture. My heroes and heroines looked glamourous and sexy with reams of smoke curling from their beautiful mouths. I mean, imagine Bacall without that sulky smog, Brando sans cigarette, DeBeauvoir and Satre in a clean air café. Just doesn’t have the allure does it ?                                                                                                                                                                           

The cigarette – glamourous and grown up. A kind of natural grail for a mixed up kid ‘pas bien dans sa peau’. And though I shudder now at the thought of the wretched sight I must have made on the top deck of the bus to Tooting Broadway ; puffing and french inhaling my way to school in a bottle green uniform blazer. At the time I was too busy feeling superior to classmate Dawn Lacey (sitting two seats behind me smoking matches…) to notice the pitying glances I must have solicited. Nope, utterly wrapped in my adolescent solipsism, I gave myself, wholly and eternally to the mighty baccy.

And so here I sit, thirty odd years of nicotine, chemical and tar consumption under my belt, coughing like an old man on a pulmonary ward. Wondering if I can really face yet another go at kicking the awful habit. What is it my doctor always tells me, every attempt brings you closer to your goal, argh !!!! Every attempt leaves me edgy and mean, distracted, self pitying and fatter. Now that ‘s appealing !

The last serious bid collapsed about three years back. After eighteen months tobacco free, I was ten kilos heavier and miserable as hell. Surely life would be better short of breath ? Since then I generally make two or three attempts a year, lasting from a couple of days to a couple of months. Already had at least one go this year, lasted two months, got my voice back and bought a packet of cigarettes to celebrate, natch !

So here I go, picturing blackened lungs, remembering what tobacco and wine breath really smells like, thinking about what I could spend the saved pennies on…gearing myself up. Charging the e-cig batteries, about to empty all the ashtrays, no tobacco left. Well I say no tobacco, but that’s a rather impressive looking butt on the fireplace, about to empty the ashtrays, those butts are looking tempting, about to empty the ashtrays…..

The mettle is elusive, maybe a bar of chocolate would help ? Ach and tsk…please wish me luck, I have an awful feeling it’ ll be needed !

wishing you many breaths between now and next week,

mandy x