The Smoking Room.

Last night there was an unscheduled news report in between Casualty and Jekyll on BBC1.  So, there’s the newsreader passing over to an interview with the Prime Minister, who wants to talk about the criticalness of the terrorist threat malarkey that’s going on at the moment, and there I am going, Who the f.uck is that geezer who looks out of place, wearing a suit that is at least one size too big? Where’s Tony Blair? Why won’t the wrong-suit geezer shut up and let Tony into view?  It took about a second for that to go through my mind before I realised that the geezer is our Prime Minister.


And I’m not sure if that Yikes! is due to the new PM or the fact that I’m more willing to tell you that anecdote than I am to tell you that I’m really scared of having to live in a criticalness terrorist threat thingy nation.  Which I’m not.  I’m very apathetic on that score.  Perhaps this makes me a bad person? Perhaps it just means that terrorists are going about things the wrong way now.  Who knows?

[As an aside, I accidentally (on purpose) nudged somebody’s bum with my shopping trolley in Tesco yesterday.  She sarcastically muttered something like, excuuuuse me.  So I sarcastically muttered something back.  It was along the lines of shut up and oooh, how clever to mutter things under your breath.  I wish I could do that too.  Then it dawned on me that I am her.  I am the person that will mutter when someone annoys me or gets in my way. 

That’s surely worthy of another Yikes!]

As of today I’m not allowed to smoke in any enclosed public places in England.  This is helped by the fact that I’m a non-smoker.  I have been a non-smoker for 167 weeks.  I have not smoked [approximately] 23,377 cigarettes and I have saved over £5,000.   

Giving up the cigarettes was the easiest thing I ever did.  One week both myself and The Blokey were verging on twenty a day each and the following week we were down to zero.  But I’m not one of those evil ex-smokers.  I don’t stand in bus shelters waving my hands in front of my face whilst muttering complaints.  I don’t even really mind being around people who are smoking: Chav Boy smokes in his car whilst driving me to and from work and the kids at work are allowed to smoke in the ‘playground’, and to ensure that they don’t fight and cause havoc we have to stand out there with them. 

I actually quite like the smell of cigarettes.  Sometimes I even feel tempted to indulge in a ‘quick fix’.  But I never have and I never will.  I never want to find myself in the position where I can’t leave home without a lighter and enough pennies to buy a packet, always checking that I have mints on me and fretting about the bus being early because I won’t get to finish my fag.  I never want to find myself in that situation where I decide that I could do with lighting up only to look down and see that I already have a half-smoked cigarette in my hand. 

Smoking was a way of life for me for over ten years.  It was as natural to me as brushing my teeth or drinking tea.  It was part of who I was, part of my existence.  And I do genuinely have a bit of sympathy with those folk who grumble about having their civil liberties taken away, who moan that they won’t be able to enjoy that Sunday lunchtime pub trip without an obligatory fag hanging out of the corner of their mouth. 

But I also laugh at their misery.

Because that’s just the kind of gal I am.

please God bless the folk who smoke xxx Elsabeth

PS: Happy Birthday [for today, not officially] Tabatha-Cat! and Happy Birthday [for tomorrow] Baby Brother!