It's been a whole month now.. count them.  THIRTY ONE DAYS. Thirty one days and twenty three hours if you want to be really pathetic.
Since my last cigarette.
What's even sadder, is I never even  knew it was my last cigarette. Nope, no last lingering goodbye, no long consideration of how it felt, no specific memories.  Just a quick stub out before I headed off to the doctors... to be unceremoniously bounced through A&E, into a medical assessment unit.

The Cherub thoughtfully disposed of my remaining fags whilst I was incarcerated.  That boy knows more than he lets on...

I thought it would be easier.  It should be easier.  Before my wee sojourn in A&E  I was down to five a day.
Sigh.... not that five a day

This five a day...

Five a day is nothing. I shouldn't be missing it.  What's to miss? After a month I should be full of the joys of having more money, enjoying the return of taste and smell and not smelling like an ashtray and yadda yadda yadda.

After a month I should be complaining about the smokers huddled outside doorways, instead of inhaling deeply as I walk past them....

Here's the news. I miss it.  I miss smoking from the bottom of my stinky wee nictoine stained heart. I miss the things we used to do together, I miss the breakfasts, and the evenings, and the drinks we had together. A lot of my better memories involve firing up.

No I'm not going to give in.  I can't do this to Dr Jacobs, and The Cherub, and all the others I promised.

I'm not a complete mug.

But bear  with me whiles I miss my old pal won't you?