It’s day three of the quit-a-thon, I can’t stop smiling, everything smells of flowers and all is going well.
Say what? Scratch that! It’s the third day of hell. I’ve climbed every wall, chewed off all my finger nails and moved on to my toes, everything is making me cranky and nothing is fine and no one is dandy.
Apparently though, ‘it’ll be worth it’ – says Heidi, safely ensconced behind the sofa and wearing a saucepan as a tin helmet.
I now have a deep affinity with Bruce Banner, and realise the whole gamma radiation thing is a cover story, designed to demonise harmless radiation and keep the truth of deadly nicotine withdrawal from the general public. Grrr! Chris Smash!!!
How can not doing something be harder than doing something? This not smoking is harder than an adamantium codpiece. It’s more difficult than doing the Daily Mail crossword…in Chinese…with one eye closed…when someone’s set fire to the paper.
And now to compensate we have a sweet shop in the living room, more crisps than a rugby pub on match night, and enough chocolate to put Willy Wonka out of business. If the quitting smoking isn’t bad enough, how much more fun am I going to be in two weeks when it’s diet season?