Smoking: I’ve given up. I’ve started again. I’ve quit – yay! Oh wait, I’ve jumped back on the tobacco horse. I’ve cut down. I’ve increased my daily intake. I wanted to stride into my thirties with clear lungs, still being able to smell my freshly washed hair by midday instead of getting a waft of stale fags every time I turn my head but with mere weeks to go, there I am, still wasting money, quite literally paying for ill health and premature ageing.
Personally, I blame both Jessica Rabbit and Sandy from Grease for my smoking habit. Being a highly ambitious little girl, my dream was to be either of the aforementioned sexy smokers. I spent a vast majority of my pocket money on those candy cigarettes (who the F invented those?!) and could often be found waltzing around the playground with a twig or leaf stem between my fingers pretending to be a seasoned smoker.
After that little phase I was taught school teacher whom I adored and who was very anti-smoking. Quite frequently she would lecture us on the dangers of smoking; prompting me to march home, collect all of my mother’s packs of B&H Silver and bury the contents in the bin before stuffing the empty boxes with health warnings I’d scrawled on fluorescent Post-Its. How the hell I’m still alive after that little stunt I do not know. I understand wholeheartedly now of course but back then, having not yet enjoyed the sweet nectar that is nicotine, I was left both confused and terrified as she stomped round the house screaming before racing up to the newsagents at top speed to bulk buy replacements.
Four years later, aged 14 I had my first cigarette. It was disgusting. I coughed (a lot) and vowed to never go near one again. Little did I know I’d chugging away on a 20 a day habit by age 19. Try as I might, I can’t kick the habit. I can often be found in the cold, freezing my tits off in the smoking area discussing how I really don’t enjoy it any more and will quit Monday but nevertheless, the beginning of a new week rolls around and I’m still there, pretty much on the hour every hour puffing away.
For me I guess it’s the social aspect and that awful part of me that is, despite my age, desperately trying to be cool. Whenever I’ve quit, I’ve panicked about what laughs I must be missing out on, the gossip that must be slipping me by as I spend my breaks doing something dreadfully boring like eating an apple in the canteen when I could be in the smoky air of the car park soaking up the nicotine and daily rumours of who’s shagged who in the goods lift. With little time left till I officially reach 30, I’ve made my peace I probably won’t quit before my birthday but I’m gonna bloody try… Again.
