mothers on the verge

Earlier this week I announced that I was thinking about stopping my depraved sucking of the tar-sticks. 20 years or so of having been in the thrall of ciggies is quite embarrassing, not to mention having recently developed a cough that should live in a much older body. So thinking quickly turned into doing - I took the bull by the horns and chucked out my last pack of Marlboro Lights. I can confidently announce that so far, all of two days and a bit in, I bitterly regret such tomfoolery. Whatever made me think such madness? And why the Hell did I act on it? It's official. Giving up smoking really, really sucks. Apart from the physical symptoms, which are not pleasant, the psychological nagging is hard to bear. Imagine a small malevolent beast living in your ear, constantly whispering in a nastly smug little voice: oooh go on, just have one. Just light up. Think about how yummy it will be, hmmm. Anyway, you don't really want to give up do you? I know h...

Following on from the realisation that my lungs are filthy and if I don't give up the smokes soon I face a life of wheezing at best, off I trotted to see the charming Dr T. Dr T, who's charming by virtue of the fact that he's less jaded than the other doctors in the surgery (in other words, he treats patients as if they're human beings with a right to NHS services rather than annoying fraudsters trying to gain sympathy for imaginary illnesses) promptly put me on potentially habit-forming drugs to get me off the evil weed. Something doesn't feel quite right about this but since I'm so pathetically grateful to have a doctor who's willing to give me more than two seconds of his precious time, I have acquiesced to his demands. Anyway, this wonder drug is called Champix and promises to have me merrily chucking my smokes in the bin in no time. Or it will if I can get past the possible side effects, the highlights being abnormal dreams, nausea, flatulence, snoring,...

The day has finally come. The writing is on the wall. Yup, that's right; I'm trying to ditch my utterly revolting, terribly unfashionable and social pariah-inducing love of cigarettes. People who don't smoke don't really get it. "Just give up," they say. ( Just give up?? That's a bit like telling a small child never to eat sweets again. Or for Posh Spice to go easy on the pouting.) Then, even though they've never inhaled a smidgen of nicotine in their smug little lives, they feel it appropriate to lecture me at length on the many different and apparently miraculous ways by which their Uncle Ted gave up his 60-a-day B&H habit, like eating mung beans harvested by virgins during a full moon or some other utter tosh. So annoying it actually makes me want to smoke.

Having some scanning issues so you'll have to take my word for it but today was pretty wild on the splashing the cash front. Sadly all sensible expenditure which is never a huge heap of fun - my heart may yearn for Bond Street but necessity takes me to the supermarket... sigh... £73.33 at Sainsbury's for groceries and petrol for the car (big yawn) £1.50 for two Diet Cokes at Pret-a-Manger (yes, I am a creature of habit) £4.30 for lunch at Pret-a-Manger (ditto) £5.81 for a pack of Marlboro Lights from the newsagents A grand total of £84.94 ! That's pretty good for 24 hours. The funny thing is that I thought this experiment would make me realise how much money I waste on a daily basis. But it hasn't. It's just made me realise that my life is incredibly dull. This is my daily routine - drop the kids at school, go to work, only leave the office during the day for meetings, sneaky fag breaks or food raids at Pret (which I eat at my desk), come home, put the kids to bed, ...

MM's post about how a day in Gotham creates an echo in her wallet got me thinking about my own expenditure on the other side of the Pond. OK, here goes. Travel on the Tube - £1.50 in to work, one-way. And may I add that this vaguely reasonable price is only because I have an Oyster card, otherwise it would be a ridiculous £4.00 - and all for the 'pleasure' of being herded into a sweaty hot train and forced to inhale someones body odour while having my personal space invaded by all and sundry. Bah. Rip-off Britain. Etc. Starbucks Mocha F rappuccino - £3.15 (or thereabouts). Every morning, there I am, queuing up and handing over my cash like a good consumer mug. The sad fact is that I am totally dependent on my daily Frappuccino, even though I have been told that they don't even contain much in the way of actual caffeine. M y suspicion is that Starbucks Frappuccinos have a special secret super-addictive ingredient, something along the lines of Oxycontin or possibly...