Fags

FAGS

"Some physicians compare the addictive qualities of nicotine to heroin
but others maintain that for many people cigarettes can be even more
addictive." Source: www.ash.co.uk, 2004

*

I felt the pain in the top of my left lung. I didn't want the ache any
more - and even more than the ache, I didn't want the paranoia of what
the pain might mean: lung cancer, emphysema, bronchitis, irreversible
frightening diseases. I looked in my cigarette packet, I had 12 left; I
smoked one more and threw the rest down the rubbish shoot. I took a
last look at the gold and white packet, the clothes of my addiction,
before I pulled down the iron shutter - CLANG!
I breathed a sigh of relief as I listened to the packet skittle down
three stories into the rubbish skip.

That's it, I thought. No more bloody, f---ing smoking. It'll 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
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 at 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, trying to negate the leaded,
empty 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 couldn't remember. That's
the thing with not being able to smoke: you don't much care about
anything but tasting that long, hot hit against the back of your
throat. Smoking a cigarette is like the relief of taking off the
tightest pair of shoes you own. Smoking after an abstinence period is
like taking off the tightest pair of shoes you own... and throwing them
across the sitting room.

The housemate was already annoying me. I wasn't focused on what she was
saying - something about her boyfriend? Where were my patches? Was it
too late for a patch?
I was struggling to feign niceties, and her loud Australian spiel was
tangibly itching 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 could hear that I was
in the company of mice or insects. I struggled to reach for the rim of
the tall rubbish skip but it was just out of my reach. F--- it! It took
me 10 minutes to feel for abandoned crates in the room and build them
into a makeshift stepladder - even then I wasn't quite high enough, I
sprung myself up off the crates until my belly rested on the skip rim
and my head was almost touching the rubbish. I could almost see, now
that my eyes were used to the dark.

The cigarette pack had split in transit; I trawled through nappies,
baked bean tins, used tea bags and broken glass until I found my first
golden glory, the Marlboro Light - I searched rabidly until I found two
more. I was disgusted with myself, but I felt calmer now that I knew I
had my drug in my pocket.

*

She was still in the kitchen, exactly where I had left her. She was
studying the walls: 'You know what? I think these walls could do with a
bit of brightening... I was thinking, cerise-pink?'

I gulped. I was already grieving for my carefully minimalistic 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...