Week two

There's no wifi on this static caravan site in North Norfolk, and I didn't find an internet cafe either. Still, the bulk of the week was smoke free, and I reckon the occasional relapses were forgivable.

Relapse 1: Friday night with the folks - well it was all going so well, but when my mother offered one to me, i figured a protest that i'd given up the day before would just look like attention seeking. That's my excuse.

Didn't have many though, as I sipped the red wine instead of necking it, but there was, of course, a family row. Needless to say, cigs were smoked.

I found no need for stimulants (other than a morning cup of tea) for several days, despite being holed up in a caravan with two teenage boys, till the following Wednesday, when I went to see my pal Soph.

Relapse 2: Soph moved to the middle of nowhere two years ago, and it was the first time I'd been to see her in rural situ. The lads barbequed her homegrown courgettes and we downed a couple of bottles of rose.

She sent me down to the co-op to aquire a third and I returned with more wine, a copy of OK magazine and a packet of ten Marlboro Lights.

Only had three of them though - pretty damn impressive.

Relapse 3: the final evening - the sunset was another stunner. Seeing as I'd spent every day tidying up and picking up towels, and most nights watching Big Brother, I sat on the bench and smoked one cigarette, I had no desire for another. It was good.

Relapse 4: We got back to the big smoke after four hours of car, train, tube, train and walk. So I stopped in the corner shop to pick up milk, bananas, a bottle of their least cheap rose and a packet of ten. There's a pattern emerging here, isn't there?

I woke up to this news on the radio this morning: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk_politics/5230006.stm

MPs want drugs to be listed according to danger to health, put tobacco way below alcohol on the scary scale. It's because fags had become so unfashionable that I stayed with the smokers. Now they'll bang on about boozers too.

Day one

So let's be fair about this. I went out to the garden this morning to pick up all the butts we'd left, along with a bottle of wine and some burned out tea lights. A large collection of cigarette butts is guaranteed to remind me what a disgusting habit it is.

Until the next time I'm drinking, or on the phone to my mother.

I'm 42, my DNA says I'm destined for heart disease, I'm sick of having a grey tongue.

If I keep this diary, then surely I CAN do it.

Wish me luck.

Day two later

Too hot to smoke, despite spending nearly an hour in Primark, which would usually be enough to have me puffing three at once.

I found this on the way home.

Day two

Woke up this morning with limbs like lead - it's the Piriton I had to take yesterday, for the mosquito bites from the night before that.

Still, Piriton is my ally today. I have to run around to pack before we head up towards the North Sea for a week by the seaside. The journey involves stopping off at the folks' for the night.

The routine at the parents is a) being plied with copious amounts of red wine by the Pa, then b) the Ma says "you shouldn't, really" and hands me at least two packets of Silk Cut or Fortuna Lights from her last trip abroad.

With Piriton in my system, I can decline the wine without looking weird. With no wine in my system, I can say no thanks to the cigarettes with a degree of backbone.

The picture of the tree is to remind me how good my lungs will be when I'm clear of the tobacco. I can hear grasshoppers in the garden.