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.

19th May 1952

He was not built for sport but by courage & will-power made himself into a useful Rugby forward.

W.G. Hutchins
Headmaster of Wallington County Grammar School for Boys

History and Heritage of WCGS

The County School for Boys, Wallington opened on the 19th September 1927, the 33rd birthday of Mr. W. T. Hutchins, its first Headmaster. There were just 71 pupils when the school opened at its original site in Queen's Road, Wallington. We moved to our present siet in 1935. To join the school, boys had to pass the entrance examination, or win a county scholarship. Parents had to pay the not inconsiderable sum of £3 per term.
The outbreak of war led to a time of crisis for the School. In February 1944, a bomb exploding outside the senior cloakroom demolished a section of the building, and four months later a flying bomb landed near Bunker's Alley, breaking nearly every window in the School and causing widespread damage. The Headmaster refused to close the School and emergency repairs made it possible for a few rooms to be used. Additional accommodation was provided at Carew Manor, which was to be the home of the Lower School until 1972.

Following the introduction of grammar schools in the 1944 Education Act, the School became known as Wallington County Grammar School for Boys.
The School is blessed by the long service of its Headmasters. Mr. Hutchins, the founding Headmaster, opened the School in 1927 on his 33rd birthday, and served for 32 years. He was succeeded in 1959 by Mr. Hitchin, who served for 17 years before handing over to Mr. Harrison, whose 14 year stint was exceeded by Dr. Haworth, who began his headship in 1990 and served for twenty years. Mr. Smart has been Headteacher at WCGS since 2010.

Smoking sucks and so does not smoking

in the words of Dorothy Parker

Résumé

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

Secret Tips

Now I've been smoke-free for three months, one week, 21 hours, 19 minutes and 26 seconds. 3915 cigarettes not smoked, saving £1,011.73. Life saved: 1 week, 6 days, 14 hours, 15 minutes.

Mystery Dude asked me do I have any tips?

I don't want to be a big old Negativio but I don't really.

The thing is, forget all that propaganda shite about what a liberating time smoking cessation is. It doesn't seem to have been a time for joy and celebration, relishing the new potency of your healthy bod etc etc.

It has been a time of grim endurance. Even now after 3 months I want a fag almost all the time. There is a sort of pleasure in noticing how much suffering I've endured.

Sounds like I'm being sarky, but I'm not, there's a tip after all. Enjoy the fact that you have endured suffering. Think about the people who love you, which I'm sure in your case MD is quite a gang. So you have given them the best gift by taking steps to avoid death, even though it hurt and inconvenienced you massively. Even though it made you into a fat mentalist. Even though you can't sleep and when you do everything feels wrong and bleak when you wake up. Even though life is now confusing and different.

So you did all that - for them, and you. That would make you a hero wouldn't it? xx

And then..

..all of a sudden it seems I have not smoked for Two months, three days, 20 hours, 28 minutes and 31 seconds. 2514 cigarettes not smoked, saving £649.90. Life saved: 1 week, 1 day, 17 hours, 30 minutes.

• I am fed up with life without fags.
  
• Every evening goes on forever and is no fun.
  
• Every part of me itches.
  
• I hear myself moan on and on about everything to everyone.
  
• There is a faint atmosphere of tomato soup coming up from my lungs all the time and it is debilitating.
• I am a great big fatso now.
• My only relief is in being drunk and sleeping with people I shouldn't.

I thought I might be able to blog myself back to joy. But then was I ever there?

Been thinking about why I complain so much and I suddenly got it, its because I don't think its fair. Whew - listen to the first sentence I uttered this morning. "I just want my sink outlet to go down a pipe into a drain, like everyone else's does". (Sink currently outletting over a concrete bit of the garden because a pipe fell off)
Well that's fucked up thinking. Sure, its true that most people's used washing-up water goes down a drain at this point in time. But what I mean to imply with my sulky whinge is that this sort of thing doesn't happen to anybody but me. I am so so so unlucky.

But am I buggery unlucky. Check it out. I live in a 5 bedroom house that I have complete control over. I have enough money to live on. I love my job. I am my own boss and my business is thriving. I have 3 children that are, in the main, superb. Though I have smoked 40 fags a day for nigh on 30 years, I do not have emphysema or lung cancer (touch wood). I can think of at least 5 men who would love to be my boyfriend. I have many and varied lovely and loyal friends. I have the freedom to do what I like. I've got a brilliant dog, an ace piano teacher, loads of good books to read and an acting workshop to go to on Monday's.

Off to take Ali to Guides now. More later.