Everything to hope for

It’s the shortest month, so if I’m going to try this, it’s the best month.

At five minutes to midnight a year ago last night, I used my Zippo to light the last cigarette in a pack. Five minutes later my guy slapped a nicotine patch on my back. I haven’t had a cigarette since.

I haven’t had a cigarette since. Happy Anniversary to me.

It’s been remarkably easy – for the most part. As they (whoever they are) say, the only way to quit smoking is to really, really want to quit. And I did. Still, it hasn’t all been sunshine and roses.

They (whoever) warn that you’re likely to gain a fair bit of weight after you quit smoking. I certainly did, although in fairness a lot of that is probably down to all the wonderful cheese in France. Or the big blocks of chocolat praliné.

There is, however, a weightier matter. A year later and I am still finding it almost impossible to write more than a few paragraphs without a cigarette. All those unfinished novels, all those plays that will never be written.

Is it time, I wonder, to change my tagline?

Somehow “ex-writer, thinker, ex-smoker, drinker” doesn’t make quite the same statement does it?

Okay, let’s give it a go. I’m not sure how this will work out with the new mornings in this my new life, but I am going to try to write something – anything, really, no matter how bloody boring it is – every day in February. Maybe, just maybe I can get this ex-smoker writing again. Fingers crossed.