John McGuirk

First off, I owe any regular readers an apology. Travel this week has meant that blogging came to a three-day standstill. Now, I’m sitting here in snow-covered Monaghan with little chance of immediate escape. The temperature outside is -12. The birds are starving. There was an earthquake in Donegal. I haven’t had a cigarette in almost a week.  Coronation Street is on the telly. As I write, Ken Barlow is giving a pompous speech about something.

This is harder than I ever thought it would be. When I started smoking again at the introduction of the smoking ban, I never thought I’d get addicted. I was a social smoker. I smoked because it was convenient – easier than minding other people’s drinks when they went out for one. I’d smoked in school, for a few years, but given them up after my leaving. That was easy, presumably because a ten a week habit is nothing compared to a twenty a day one.

I’m using nicorette patches. So there are, actually, no physical symptoms. No headaches. No pain elsewhere. No cold sweats or shaking hands. The worst of it is the tickle in my throat which comes, I think, from the layers of tar which have accumulated there and are beginning to peel away. At least, a friend of mine who took this path before me told me that this would happen and proffered that explanation. Even if it’s not true, it makes it seem more worthwhile.

No, the physical pain hardly exists. But by God, I want a cigarette. I want the pleasure of it. The excuse to go outside, and look at the sky, and blow smoke up into the night and feel the slight tightening of my arteries that comes with it. Those of you who’ve never smoked probably read that sentence and say “Go on! Go outside! Just don’t smoke!”. Those of you who do smoke, or did smoke, know that it’s not the same. There’s no way to explain it, but certain moments and things are made for smoking. After food. After a shower. Driving. With a bottle of red. Or just taking a break from the couch.

I’m not sure why I’m doing this. I’ve never experienced the downside to smoking. Since I started again, I’ve never dated a woman who didn’t smoke, so I’ve never been told that I taste like an ashtray. I’ve never been told I stink of stale fags. I’ve never woken up coughing or felt physically ill. But I guess if I don’t stop now, that day might come.

I’m going to do it, no question, partly because I don’t like failing. But damnit, I’m going to miss the fags.