I can't remember what I called this article when I first wrote it in 2001, but 'Tar Very Much' is what The Big Issue called it when they published it in September of that year, so I'll stick to that till I remember what the original title was.
I'm hunting up all my old pieces and posting them as I have the time to do so. I'm giving the published a new lease on life and the unpublished a chance to shift out of the filing cabinet and on to the e-waves.
I’ve been hacking and hawking the foulest stuff, all shades and textures, from my lungs. They’re heaving a sigh of relief before getting down to the business of healing. But I’m not thinking about it too much, just focussing on the quitting part, working my way through cartons of gum and kilos of barley sugar. The jaws are getting tired but it’s important to keep them moving. It stops me from thinking about lighting up – just one more smoke, just one more time, for old times’ sake. Eight weeks on and I’m the original can’t-say-no girl, rejecting her favourite activity.
The upside is that I’ve saved myself at least 7000 inhalations so far – more if you consider that as a nervous smoker I’d take four puffs to other people’s one. And two days after I quit the cigs, I could run for the bus without wanting to collapse in agony at the driver’s feet.
My husband thinks it’s a definite downer that my husky pack-a-day hacker voice has gone but he’ll have to do without. What counts is that I can now sing ‘Ba Ba Black Sheep’ to my granddaughter without scaring her too much.
I’d like to turn it into a virtue, say that I quit because of the graphic television ads, but the remote control can whisk you away from unpalatable truths in an instant. And it wasn’t the thought of saving heaps of money, either; addicts are only interested in the next fix. No, it’s about my waking one morning and finding both nicotine and oxygen jockeying for first place in my affections and the nicotine was winning hands down.
It’s a shame, because I’ve had a cig chopsticked in my fingers or dangling from my lower lip since I was 16 and there’s nothing like a smoke. From first puff to last gasp we’ve been pals, the cigs and I, sharing countless sunrises and sunsets. There’s nothing like the garden first thing in the morning; just the birds, the caffeine, a nicotine fix and me – spread out on a chaise lounge. I’ve tried a carrot stick as an after dinner stimulant but believe me, carotene and conversation loses something in the translation.
The party’s over, I said to my packet of Alpine ultras before tenderly tossing them into the council bin. But it hasn’t been an amicable separation. The cigs haven’t been good sports, and withdrawal isn’t a convenient bank transaction.
Once the pall of smoke had cleared, a generation’s worth of squatters were screaming for custody of the body the nicotine mafia tramped through my bloodstream in high heals, cha cha’d o my chest and reminded me who was boss. I’d just take deep breaths and say things like, ‘you’re fired, you’re history you bastards, give me my life back!’ I won the skirmish and they went off to regroup. Eight weeks later, their best effort is the occasional poke in the ribs, but I’ve learned to call out ‘nyah, nyah!’ and give the mafia the finger.
There’s a little more waddle in my gait now, but there’s going to be nothing more ominous than a piece of carrot cake and a scoop of low fat ice cream to deal with after this. And If I’m thinking of lapsing, JM Barry, Peter Pan’s literary dad and a fellow quitter is my role model. More than a hundred years ago, he said, ‘No blind beggar was more abjectly led by his dog, or more loath to cut the string.’ (My Lady Nicotine, 1890). Which only proves that there were the same sorts of idiots then as there are now.
We used to smoke behind the girls’ shelter shed. We were the smokers’ club, practising for the distant day we’d come out from behind the shed right onto street corners. We were bad, we were cool, now we’re just plain cold and old and wondering what price the piper is going to ask of us, wondering if we’ve left it too late.
The glory days of smokPing – on planes, trains and in hospital foyers – are dead. Long live the Surgeon General’s report and the ubiquitous anti-smoking lobby. They’ve turned a glamorous lifestyle into a filthy habit in less than three decades. There was an idea, then, whose time had come. And like all good ideas, once born into the world there’s no going back. Hopefully it won’t be too much longer before we can all give Sir Walter Raleigh the finger and finally have some closure.
The upside is that I’ve saved myself at least 7000 inhalations so far – more if you consider that as a nervous smoker I’d take four puffs to other people’s one. And two days after I quit the cigs, I could run for the bus without wanting to collapse in agony at the driver’s feet.
My husband thinks it’s a definite downer that my husky pack-a-day hacker voice has gone but he’ll have to do without. What counts is that I can now sing ‘Ba Ba Black Sheep’ to my granddaughter without scaring her too much.
I’d like to turn it into a virtue, say that I quit because of the graphic television ads, but the remote control can whisk you away from unpalatable truths in an instant. And it wasn’t the thought of saving heaps of money, either; addicts are only interested in the next fix. No, it’s about my waking one morning and finding both nicotine and oxygen jockeying for first place in my affections and the nicotine was winning hands down.
It’s a shame, because I’ve had a cig chopsticked in my fingers or dangling from my lower lip since I was 16 and there’s nothing like a smoke. From first puff to last gasp we’ve been pals, the cigs and I, sharing countless sunrises and sunsets. There’s nothing like the garden first thing in the morning; just the birds, the caffeine, a nicotine fix and me – spread out on a chaise lounge. I’ve tried a carrot stick as an after dinner stimulant but believe me, carotene and conversation loses something in the translation.
The party’s over, I said to my packet of Alpine ultras before tenderly tossing them into the council bin. But it hasn’t been an amicable separation. The cigs haven’t been good sports, and withdrawal isn’t a convenient bank transaction.
Once the pall of smoke had cleared, a generation’s worth of squatters were screaming for custody of the body the nicotine mafia tramped through my bloodstream in high heals, cha cha’d o my chest and reminded me who was boss. I’d just take deep breaths and say things like, ‘you’re fired, you’re history you bastards, give me my life back!’ I won the skirmish and they went off to regroup. Eight weeks later, their best effort is the occasional poke in the ribs, but I’ve learned to call out ‘nyah, nyah!’ and give the mafia the finger.
There’s a little more waddle in my gait now, but there’s going to be nothing more ominous than a piece of carrot cake and a scoop of low fat ice cream to deal with after this. And If I’m thinking of lapsing, JM Barry, Peter Pan’s literary dad and a fellow quitter is my role model. More than a hundred years ago, he said, ‘No blind beggar was more abjectly led by his dog, or more loath to cut the string.’ (My Lady Nicotine, 1890). Which only proves that there were the same sorts of idiots then as there are now.
We used to smoke behind the girls’ shelter shed. We were the smokers’ club, practising for the distant day we’d come out from behind the shed right onto street corners. We were bad, we were cool, now we’re just plain cold and old and wondering what price the piper is going to ask of us, wondering if we’ve left it too late.
The glory days of smokPing – on planes, trains and in hospital foyers – are dead. Long live the Surgeon General’s report and the ubiquitous anti-smoking lobby. They’ve turned a glamorous lifestyle into a filthy habit in less than three decades. There was an idea, then, whose time had come. And like all good ideas, once born into the world there’s no going back. Hopefully it won’t be too much longer before we can all give Sir Walter Raleigh the finger and finally have some closure.
Pubished in The Big Issue, September - October 2001
2 comments:
Hi Mary! Thought I would comment back. It is nice as a new blogger to know that someone is reading. So thanks for letting me know you are out there!
I like that picture! (the cigarette) As a new blogger myself, I would like to invite you to spend some time at my blog. If you (or I) have any question, probably we can sort out together. Multiple heads is better than one, I think...
ersante.com
See you!
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