It's more than three years since I last smoked a cigarette - or anything else, for that matter. The date of my last cigarette is engraved on my memory as that was the day I was introduced to my Macmillan nurse. Fortunately, the shadow on my lung turned out to be a plug of mucus and not a tumour. All the same, I found it surprisingly easy to quit, even when others around me were smoking. I simply found that i didn't want to smoke. Previous attempts to stop smoking had lasted four months and six months, so I was expecting to feel the urge again in a short while. But it has rarely happened - for which I am truly thankful.
But this morning I have felt the pull. Twice.
I had finished my oats - porridge oats, not wild ones. At my age? - and was sitting at the breakfast table (it's also the lunch table and the dinner table and the supper table. Very versatile.) with a cup of coffee when it struck. Although, strangely perhaps, it wasn't the act of puffing that I wanted as I felt that would choke me. It was the whole rigmarole of taking a cigarette out of the packet, lighting it and holding it in my fingers. Anyway, the thought was soon displaced.
And then, while walking the dog in the park, I saw another dog walker with a cigarette and it reminded me how good a cigarette in the open air used to taste.
But it's alright - I'm over it again.