Early this morning to Graham’s mother to drop himself off with a collection of cardboard packing cases. Her flat is to be decorated and she wanted her stuff packed up and stowed out of the way ready for the workmen. My presence was not required so I took off, with instructions to wait for a call this afternoon.
My plan was to take breakfast and buy milk, yoghurt and chocolate in Morrison’s and I did do that. For some completely unfathomable reason though, I took a right turn at the bottom of the road and ended up in Pontardawe. No great loss. I drove to the big roundabout, turned round, and came back to Neath and my breakfast, which was good.
I picked up my provisions in pretty good order and then disaster struck.
That unfathomable reason hit me again and I bought myself a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches, walked out to the car, and took a jolly good toke of blessed tobacco smoke.
Oh, boy, but that felt good!
I am deeply ashamed of course, and have confessed my sin to Graham, who is not pleased.
So, over the next couple of days I shall be popping out into the garden for a smoke and, when the pack is empty, shall give it up again.
I find it hard to believe that one pack of ciggies is going to do me much physical harm. Indeed, having since then smoked three more of the deathly little tubes, I find to my horror that my leg is suddenly feeling much better, the swelling almost gone, and my ability to walk largely restored.
Even so, I shall revert to ex-smoker status by Monday. Even if I were inclined to continue along this foolish path I can’t bring myself to do so. Cigarettes are now just a little over £5 a pack. An expensive way to suicide and not in the least painless.
Ah well. “The game of life is hard to play.”
