A fortnight later

As of today it’s been a fortnight since I last smoked a cigarette. (Almost wrote “since I smoked my last cigarette”, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.) That is pretty fucking good.

Am I missing my old mate? Well, yes and no.

The patches are doing their job. I don’t wake up in the morning craving a cigarette. When I’m not home alone I really don’t think about smoking at all. But, you know, I am home alone a lot of the time. I’m not talking about sitting here jonesing for a fag. That doesn’t happen. (Well, not really.) It’s just association.

Morning coffee equals fag. Writing equals fag. Driving equals fag. Talking on the phone equals fag. Finishing dinner equals fag. And then there’s that last fag before lights out. That’s the habit, rather than the addiction. Oddly I think that might be harder to break. (Especially the writing. Sitting here right now, my hand keeps vaguely reaching for the pack that isn’t there.)

The good (and honestly quite astonishing) news is that the hacking smoker’s cough has diminished to the point of almost disappearing. Was not expecting that to happen so quickly.

The not so good news (which wasn’t in any of the brochures I read) is that attempting to quit smoking is apparently knackering. I keep falling asleep while sitting on the sofa watching television in the evening. Like at seven in the evening. I’m not talking about two in the morning. (Oh, look. Bit of googling reveals that, yes, quitting smoking does indeed commonly cause fatigue. Recommendation? Take a lot of naps. Fuck that.)

By the time I’m done with the patches, I’ll be in France, looking at this view.

By the time we’ve had our month there? I don’t know. But I am optimistic. I’m not saying the future is going to look like this.

It’s just a kinda cute picture.