Tuesday Pt 1: Field life

The Family Estate

The next bit sounds more like a sitcom than real life so I've drawn a map of the field in the hope that this will add realism to the unlikely scenario. You will see that Maurice has parked us kids (combined age 100) in the corridor down the edge. They rent out the field to NiceLady who owns the horses depicted, she comes twice a day to see to the horses and has been warned that naughty children will be visiting.

Martin and I get up and settle happily into field life, last night's orgy of despair all forgotten. Pretty soon NiceLady turns up. She has a nice brown collie who makes a beeline for Ted. She starts to panic and yells "she's not very good with other dogs!" to which I reply in a sage calm voice, "Don't worry, it'll be fine, they'll sort it out!". For not only have I an imagined affinity with horses, I do dogs too.

So the lovely dog trots over and almost at once snaps at Ted. I chuckle indulgently and explain that the correct procedure is to dominate the errant dog. So I shout "You're very naughty and I'm very cross" at the brown collie who looks ashamed and leaves.

Martin rather takes to the domination thing and we spend a pleasant few minutes playing with the brown collie.
It trots over, Martin says "We're not interested in you. Now go away and leave us alone". It trots off.
It trots over, Martin says "We're not interested in you. Now go away and leave us alone". It trots off.
Eventually though NiceLady comes over with a load of horse poo to put on the pile.
Martin says "We're not interested in you. Now go away and leave us alone".
Oh the horror.
NiceLady replies "I actually have a perfect right to be here".

I was hiding in the campervan cringing for all I was worth. I think Martin did spend a good few minutes trying to explain, apologise, make amends. Even so, our relationship with NiceLady had not got off to a good start. She points out that we are parked in the middle of the lushest grass. Martin and I look at the grass with great puzzlement as to townies it looks the same as the other grass. NiceLady wants her horses to roam unfettered over this allegedly lush grass for a treat every morning but can't because we are in the way. Martin, now doing uncharacteristic back-flips of helpfulness, says we will pack up and temporarily move out tomorrow morning. A kind of sort of truce breaks out.

My mum phones to invite us over for lunch. I accept and then lightly mention we may have upset the tenant.
When delivering unsavoury news to Mum, she doesn't reply, just relays the horror straight to Maurice. Like so:
Maurice, they have upset NiceLady.
They have been horrible to her dog
They have been rude to her and told her to go away
They are parked in the middle of her favourite grass

Finally she speaks direct to me. "We have never had a single cross word with NiceLady. She is a supremely pleasant and nice lady."

"Soz" I reply inadequately.

Ten minutes later, Mum phones to tell us not to leave the field on any account, they are coming over. Uh-oh we're in trouble. They arrive, very tempting to shout "Run, it's the pigs" but they would probably beat us over this terrain.

I essay a disarming smile but no dice. Fortunately, Maurice is in a kind and indulgent mood and moves us out of harm's way into the top field (see Fig 1). We settle in and resolve to be no more trouble. Combined actual age 100. Combined perceived age 12.

Monday: Belly-flop into the void.

Day 1 of Not Smoking. My plan was to take my luvverly hard-smoking boyfriend Martin and Ted the collie to my mum's remote Hampshire field. We would live in my campervan until one of us died or I was cured.  I would go from 40 cigs a day to 0 with nothing but nature to assuage my cravings. What could possibly go wrong?

Part 1: Travelling Hopefully 

We awoke in good time for departure at 8am. In spite of a massive hangover and a leaden sky I felt feebly optimistic. Martin bought lychee juice believing it to be a valid substitute for the  grapefruit juice I had demanded ("Are you insane? Lychee juice is the sweetest substance in the world. It is the antithesis of grapefruit juice.") but otherwise all was fairly nice.

We left at about 11:30am having mislaid only 3.5 hours, not a bad result for me and the Hackney Poet working as a team. Martin drove the campervan in the manly capable manner he is forced to adopt around me.

Speeding down the magnificent A329M, Martin asks: "M4 towards London, right?"

H: (rather over emphatically). Don't go on the M4. Really. Please don't. It's wrong. OK? Avoid it at all costs.

[Stressed by the idea that we may accidentally go on the M4, I start rummaging in my bag looking for oral gratification]

H: (looking up) You've gone on the M4 haven't you?
M: Yes, M4 towards London
H: Why? Why? It was the one thing I said not to do.
M: I looked it up, it's the best way
H: How can you possibly know better than me? You arrogant arse. I've done this journey 5 million times..(etc etc)....You need to come off at the next junction and come back the way you came..jeez I don't believe you...

[pause]

H: This is still the A329M isn't it?
M: Yup.

How we laughed! Well HE did.

Part 2: Mental collapse in Sainsburys
We arrive at Mum and Maurice's, introductions are made, eyebrows are raised, Mum plays a blinder by getting Martin's name right and not calling him by the name of the previous boyfriend. 

Martin and I go to Sainsburys for provisions. In the shop he does that bloke thing of galloping ahead and saying "Let's just get what we need and get out". By now I have been 12 hours without nicotine and have become a looper. I stare at vegetables feeling that they are somehow essential to my recovery. But they confuse me, nay overwhelm me. I blindly grab some leeks and break down into pathetic sobbing. I stumble to the next aisle where I meet Martin. Tears running down my face, I suggest that I am not coping that well without fags. I go on to say I really want some Halloumi but am not sure what form of matter it is. "It's cheese, darling", says Martin, and taking control of the trolley masterminds the rest of the spree. We buy loads of junk food, Jim Beam with Honey, a box of red wine and a Nicorette Inhalator, soon to become known as the sucky stick, as in "Have you seen my sucky stick? I need it I need it". 

Cold turkey, cold schmurky.

Part 3: Astonishingly Grim First NightOur cosy camp established, Martin hits the junk food, I make a delightful Halloumi thing. An uneasy silence descends.We find that if you mix the Jim Beam and Honey with coffee it is more like a lovely nightcap than an experiment in binge-drinking. Though the effect is stunningly similar.

I decide to make trouble by giving a blunt harsh assessment of Martin's issues. Stamping all over an area where angels very  much fear to tread. He yells "You have no idea what you're talking about" and disappears. Eventually he comes back and sits in the passenger seat and says nothing. I am gently snivelling and in a drunken non-sequitur decide I have always had an affinity with horses. I duck under the electric fence to commune with the dappled grey that lives next door. Me and horsey do seem to get on quite well, we snort at each other and walk up and down the field together. 

I say goodbye and duck back under the electric fence, this time it electrocutes me on the bum and I lie spread-eagled on the field for some time, hoping Martin will notice that I've died. But nope, I have to return to the campervan unmourned.

He's STILL not talking to me when I get back. So I have no option but to traverse 5 miles of common-land in the blackest blackest dark to find a shop that will for sure not be open and purchase some cigarettes. 

At first I set off with Ted, but he gets zapped by the fence so I take him back. I put him in the van and say to Martin "Can I trust you not to mistreat my dog?", possibly the most outrageous thing I have ever said in my whole life. 

I set off through woods and brambles in the pouring rain. I realise it is hopeless after about 5 minutes. I lie down under a tree and reflect on how everyone will be sorry when I'm dead. After a while I get cheesed off and go back to the van. I tell Martin that he doesn't care if I live or die. He asks, how long do I think it would be before he came to look for me? Huh! I feebly reply. 

Bloody hell, I love that man.

Sunday: Farewell my Fag Friends

Goodbye lovely fags

Traditionally I like to spend the day before a quit smoking my head off and getting drunk.

I still recall the collaborative quit of '07 when I chatted online with Mystery Dude while necking wine at an amazing rate. In the white heat of creativity born of despair, we worked together on a poem, a paean to seminal fluid entitled "Spunk Song", now sadly lost to history.

I became convinced that this was the most important poem ever written and decided to publish and be damned (against MD's advice). It appeared briefly in this very blog.

The next day I was driving the kids to my mum's when I suddenly remembered what I had done. I had to pull over and phone MD and ask him to please please please take the poem down. Which he did. Great memories great times. Not.

Anyway, last Sunday dawned sunny and warm as far as I remember. I had acheived some sort of cod Buddhist acceptance and peace and was chanting my mantra "I want to live I want to live". I settled into 20 JPS silver and a cheeky bottle of whatever (£3.50 from over the road).

Incidentally, I told Sadda from over the road that I was quitting and he told me that under the Afghani moral code he is entitled to kill me if I break my promise.

Martin was coming over to support me in my last smokey binge but man he was slow. I wonder if he suspected I was about to turn into a terrible terrible psycho bitch. Or more likely he was just farting about. I sent several sweet communiques stating that he should take his time, no rush etc

8:30 I lost it and sent a message "Never mind Buddhist acceptance, hurry the f*ck up"

10pm I was listening to Calvin Harris at ear-splitting volume and dancing with zero aplomb.

10:15 I accepted I was actually alone in the world, apart from Ali coming downstairs to tell me to please turn it down.

10:16 I started a phoning binge that included Nicky, Die, Chris, and Iain.
These calls were all roughly similar with me going
Im giving up smoking but dontknowwhy cos itdoesntmatter because noone loves me anyway I might justaswell smoke myself stupid because who cares and anyway you're the only one that ever cared nobody else does and I might die anyway
Other end: Huh?
Really sorryIbothered you but Im giving up smoking but dontknowwhy (repeat and fade)

Martin turned up circa 12:30 when remarkably I was still on the phoning jag.

Truly can't recall what happened then, presumably we went to bed and I fell into a light coma.

And so the scene is set for the horrible but brilliant quit of August 2013.

The Horrible Brilliant Quit

According to the thing on my phone, I have been smoke free for 5 days, 16 hours and have reaped several health benefits. Well that's all true give or take a few fags and health benefits.

I thought I'd go for maximum drama this time and spend the week in a campervan in a field with Ted the dog and the impossibly fag-addicted Martin. Drama? You seen Trainspotting? Double it.

Jeez it was intense. I couldn't write about it at the time because I was a) mental b)out of internet range.

I will backfill for you now... but it's grim.

You know those smuggos that say they just stopped smoking one day and it was as easy as pie. I don't like them.