Nasty Nicotene

Nasty, nasty, nasty, lovely, no, nasty fags. They will be the literal death of me. 

Bastards. Apologies for the bad language. But really there is no better word for the little feckers. They mock me. They wait in my husband's pockets late at night when no one is awake to see me sneak out the patio door (it's quieter) and quickly roll and light up leaning against the deck. Last night I saw a beautiful half moon that slid gleaming yellow from behind the midnight clouds. No one there but me and the bats to notice. 

But there I go again, making something lyrical out of a snatched nicotene moment on the deck . Later, when I had scrubbed my teeth and guiltily slipped into bed beside my snoring husband, I felt the disappointment, the lack of self respect. I blamed it on the few glasses of wine, the fact that my cat died last week (another post). I find I have lots of reasons to blame my lapses of good healthy behaviour.

Today I went for a two mile run. To be good. To blast oxygen into my lungs. And I think it did good. I felt energised. I'm writing aren't I? Why would I want a rotten cigarette in my mouth? 

Absolutely never, never, ever going to have a cigarette again.

Husband. Hide the damned bastards. Please.