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?

For day to day heart attacks, there is initial admission to the local hospital, St James.  For more exciting stuff, like major operations and assessments, the neurosurgeries, the cardiothoracics, the transplants and traumas, and er, the angiograms, for the whole ER / Casualty / House stuff, we go to the Royal.
This a big and expensive new centre of excellence, built as part of a private finance initiative in the middle of nowhere.
Being in the sticks, this is the first time I've been near the place since the Cherub and I trailed out to visit Wayne before his first operation. The was just over two years ago.

Here's a picture of the place that brought back a lot of memories.
This hospital gave me a massive lump in my throat.
Which, is probably not a good idea if you're headed in for a spot of light surgery yourself.

Well they've got me again.  This time it's just as an alleged day care patient, but I've been told to "pack an overnight bag just in case".  Yeah well twice in the past month I've dropped into a hospital day ward, and twice they've kept me in for days. Fool me once shame on you, fool me THREE times...tsk.. I'm taking no chances.

This time I are forewarned. I am becoming a veteran bed blocker. This time round, as well as toothpaste and jammies,  my overnight bag will contain the following:-

• Tonight's dinner in the form of super nice salad.  I have considered a small bottle of chilled wine, but gone with fruit juice...
• DOUGHNUTS.  You can never have too many doughnuts in hospital. 
• Phone recharger.  Because as well as keeping everyone updated, the iPhone is going to have to cope as an all round entertainment centre.  I shall be checking blogs as well as doing my online sudoku y'know. Luckily every hospital bed comes well supplied with sockets.
• Trash magazines. Because at some point my brain will be mulch, and Cheryl Cole's life will suddenly appear more interesting than mine.
• Perfume. Because hospitals (and the commode  which seems to be permanently parked at the bed next to mine) stink.  I have sufficient stocks of Bergamot and Lime to spray liberally

Back soon, with or without stent...

Forget that The Bridge is yet again closed to high sided traffic as we huddle beneath 70mph winds; forget the steady drizzle that's been moving across the Pentlands since oh whenever - for  it is officially that time of year when we should be Slimming For Summer.
Yes it is that time of year again when we are told to get a  beach body/ smart diet /flat tummy in six, five or four days  via total fruit detox / food combining or flat out starvation ....You know the routine. 

Well, get this, this year, for a change I have cracked it.  Despite not getting out of bed for days on end, ceasing to walk further than 50 years,  and eating only jam doughnuts for a week, I am back at size ten.
Officially. 
Check it; I am very clearly wearing jeans which are labelled US size 2.
You read it here first. Obviously this is a diet plan which needs to be patented. All it takes is, wait for it, incarceration in St James' medical assessment unit for a week. Call me picky, but I can't eat within five yards of a commode. In a ward of six inmates only two of us were not elderly and bedridden. And bless Dr Jacobs who refused to consider for one moment, allowing me to walk out of that ward in the direction of to the hospital shop.
I existed on a bag of jam doughnuts brought in on day 2.

Laterwhiles, back home, I seem to have slept through any snack attacks. Which is a Good Thing since the Cherub is eating his way through foodstuffs faster than Tesco Online can deliver them, and it's been many a week since I considered baking even a pathetic wee flapjack.
The net result, peoples, is, two dress sizes down in four weeks.

Probably a good thing for world karma, that Ms Smug here is officially forbidden to fly or leave the country this side of Christmas.....

Obviously I never thought about this before.  What with being young*, and thin and fit, and eating healthily and all,  heart attacks weren't up there on my list of things to consider. It's fair to say that what plans I did have for my immediate future did not involve angiograms, statins and beta blockers.
Hey, times change. Here's today's news.  I've had some motivation, time and opportunity to consider  Non Systemic Mycardial Infarctions, and I can tell you this; recovering from a heart attack is phenomenally boring.  

I don't know if excitement is technically Bad for Me, but it's in short supply living within the terms and conditions of my release from hospital.

I may not
Drive a car. Any car, not a rally car, not a 4x4 off roader, not a family saloon, not even a Reliant Robin.  This is because the DVLA are quite clear that  sometime in the next four weeks I am likely to have a further heart attack whilst at the wheel.  Nice thought non? Moving swiftly on from that, let's just say living in the sticks without transport is not possible.

Walking over 100 yards is not recommended. There was great rejoicing when I  managed a 50 yard stroll with dog yesterday. Hold the front page  though.  The bus stop is 100 yards away.

Move loads.  On the plus side a hoover or bucket of soapy water is deemed to be a load.  On the downside, the novelty of not cleaning fairly wears off after two weeks of living with a moulting dog and 14 year old - not that the cherub is moulting mind you; he  just leaves a trail of debris behind him. He's 14, he can't help it. It's in his contract.


Putting it together then,  my verboten list includes, shopping of any type, getting to the doctor, deer hunting, trapeze  and freestyle dance routines, bathing the dog, travelling to Cannes, hanging out the washing, gardening, air travel, drag racing, returning books to library, getting to a cinema, changing the bed linen (FFS, really), walking around Roslin chapel or the East Neuk, or Dalmeny estate, or Craigie Woods, or anywhere I would want to walk the mutt, swimming, paragliding, kickboxing, eating at McDonalds, travelling to my spiritual homelands of Glasgow, TK Max or Bali.  I could go on, but it's getting depressing already.

Suffice to say, I will not be checking out Mr Beastie's blog.  Scarlet Blue's already comes with a medical warning....



*Listen up, technically  50 is YOUNG. You 35 year olds take note of how time creeps up on you now....