fags

I felt the pain in the top of my left lung. I did not want the ache any more. And even more than the ache, I did not want the paranoia of what the pain might mean: lung cancer, emphysema, bronchitis, irreversible frightening diseases.

I looked in my cigarette packet, 12 left; I smoked one more and put the rest in the rubbish shoot. I glanced at the gold packet, the clothes of my addiction, before I pulled down the iron shutter ' CLANG!

Relieved, I listened to the packet skittle down three stories into the rubbish skip.

That is it, I thought. No more bloody, f”ing smoking. It will kill me. It makes my breath stink. It costs a fortune. And the pains ' not forgetting the pains¦

6.30 p.m.

I sat in front of the TV with a cup of green tea. This is it ' my new life of fresh food, water, exercise and all things virtuous. I had visions of being the fresh-faced girl, full of energy, eyes bright from cycling to work ' or some other equally wholesome and commendable pursuit. The girl whose hair, without fail, shines. The girl whose pearlescent teeth are complemented by her minty breath. The girl who is in control ' of her lifestyle, her food, her (no) smoking, her LIFE.

By 9 p.m. I was irritable. My only choice was to go to bed. Had it got this bad where I couldn't even enjoy a waking hour without nicotine to be my 'friend'? I reminded myself that I had Nicorette patches for the morning ' it would all be OK in the morning.

Wrapping the duvet tight around myself, I dreamt of ashtrays and all things weird.

9.30 a.m.

'Morning!' I was rudely awoken by new housemate, she was due to move in next week but I had given her the keys in advance. '

'I've come to paint my room,' she said.

Bleary-eyed, I looked at her. Paint her room? Who? What? Had I agreed to this?

'OK,' I said.

I was feeling overly stressed for this time in the morning. Withdrawal pangs were scratching my back; the little devils were fingering me from the inside. My body felt tight, like I had to breathe harder to remain calm.

I stood still for a moment to diffuse the leaded feeling that was blocking my veins; I wanted hit something. I wanted to hit her.

'A cup of tea then?' I asked her.

'You beauty!' she replied in her Australian accent.

What was her name again? It was no good, I could not remember. That's the thing with not being able to smoke; you don't much care about anything but tasting that long hit against the back of your throat.

Smoking a cigarette is like the relief of taking off the tightest pair of shoes you own. But smoking after an abstinence period is like taking off the tightest pair of shoes you own and throwing them across the sitting room.

My housemate was already annoying me. I was not focused on what she was saying ' something about her boyfriend? Where were my patches? Was it too late for a patch?

I struggled to feign niceties as her loud spiel tangibly itched my skin. I hurriedly made the tea while she continued to chatter.

'Excuse me a minute,' I said.

I tied up my dressing gown and ran down to the ground floor.

It was pitch black in the rubbish cellar and I was in the company of mice. I struggled to reach for the rim of the rubbish skip. F” it! It took me 10 minutes to feel for abandoned crates and build them into a makeshift stepladder ' and even then I wasn't high enough.

I sprung myself from the crates until my belly rested on the rim and my head touched the rubbish. Now that my eyes were used to the dark I could just about see.

The cigarette pack had split in transit. I trawled through nappies, baked bean tins, used tea bags and broken glass until I found my golden glory, the first Marlboro Light ' I searched rabidly until I found two more.

I was disgusted with myself but felt calmer now that I had my feted drug in my pocket.

The housemate was in my kitchen, studying the walls, exactly where I had left her.

'You know what? I think these could do with a bit of brightening,' she paused,
'I was thinking, cerise pink?'

I gulped. I was already grieving for my carefully minimal colour scheme. I lit my first soggy cigarette. Aaaaaaah! My sweet, sodden addiction. That creeping, crawling, sliding stench.

Shiny-hair-without-fail-girl took a break for that weekend, and the next week, and the next.