Two years since I had a cigarette, which I think makes me a non-smoker. This is of course a jolly good thing and I won’t be going back, or I will – when I learn I’ve a fatal disease or get to the point where fuck it, I’m old anyway. Because I don’t want to smoke, my sprouts certainly don’t want me to smoke, it’s horribly expensive and 90% of what you smoke is habit, not joy.
Ah, but what joy!
If I could smoke only once a week, say two fags on Sunday? What bliss that would be. But cigarettes are always on a dirty weekend and coquettishly always want more from you. And that first one when it’s been a few days is wonderful. Your eyes close, you get that rush and you breathe out like a very cool dragon indeed. But instead you smoke all the time, every day and though if you’re denied it you crave it, when finally you get there it’s somehow all rather sordid.
So I’m not going to smoke.
Until I’m too old to remember I don’t.