I woke up on a sofa in Cardiff this morning, stinking of fags and dessert wine. "I am bloody giving up," I thought.
Sat across from me on the train were two people from an organisation that appeared to be called SmokeFree. They spent the entire journey discussing their strategies for wiping out smoking across the country. They sounded so perversely happy at their plans for limiting smoking areas, removing awnings, and generally giving smokers a hard time. They did it in such glorious detail that I immediately wanted to smoke, at them.
Throughout the journey the man stared at his flowchart with a missionary zeal, while his stick-thin female companion nibbled delicately at a piece of fruit. They looked so smug, so content, that it hurt.
I want to give up. I should give up. The world would be better if I did give up. But something about those two noble folk with their powerpoint plans for clean lungs made me quiver.
And then, perfectly, as we pulled into Paddington, the woman reached into her handbag and rolled herself a cigarette. "Dunno about you," she said to her friend, "But I'm gasping."