Temptation Hill

I suppose I'd better start by saying:

Two months, one week, 7 hours, 5 minutes and 28 seconds. 2048 cigarettes not smoked, saving £563.43. Life saved: 1 week, 2 hours, 40 minutes.

and see what nonsense we can pull from those statistics.

Well, I have been too busy to look at my statistics recently, so am first struck that I passed 2000 ciggies not smoked at some point on Saturday night. And I can imagine what that stack of empty packets looks like. Easily as tall as my desk, much taller in fact.

I see I've also recently saved over a week of my life. A bit of an unbelievable statistic, but fun nonetheless. And the money saved continues to climb.

In the end, I bought neither a double-neck Epiphone nor a Gibson SG with the money saved (although just saying the names of those objects makes me want to buy them), as I decided I'm not that rich. I did treat myself to a polarising filter and a remote control for my camera however.



I recently visited our local UFO-spotting hill in the company of other ancient skywatchers as a nostalgic treat. It was a lovely night, and was 1976 all over again. Nobody saw any UFOs, but I think people enjoyed being there again. However, the number of skywatchers who smoke is surprising. I was sorely tempted. Still, I did get to stand next to a load of smokers and smell their lovely, lovely smoke.

I was thinking, while breathing in their lovely smoke, that if I were to fail in my quit, I'd have to "teach" myself to smoke again. I wouldn't have been able to just bum a fag from a ufologist and smoke it there and then. That would be far too nauseating. No, I would have to allow my body to acclimatise to the toxins. I would have to have a drag and then put the ciggie out. Then after twenty minutes, have perhaps two drags. And so on until I'd had a complete fag. But even then, I would feel faintly nauseous, and so I wouldn't have another for an hour or so. But I would have it. After the second or third cigarette, I would just feel generally ill -- slightly nauseous, and probably developing a headache.

But I wouldn't let that put me off. I'd still smoke another one, and another. Then I'd go to bed, and have colourful dreams.

But the next morning I'd be an adapted smoker. And the cigarette I'd have when I woke up would be the only cigarette I'd consciously enjoy, ever.

I wonder where Dolores is?