Churchill, I am not

I went into yesterday knowing that it was a big test. If I’m honest though, I’d probably have to admit that I had already decided that I would crack.

Over the past couple of years I have completely eliminated the smoking at work. Instead of dashing into the smoking room, and then, after the ban, dashing outside when I could, I would bide my time until returning home, where I could smoke with tranquillity and leisure. And in quitting, I knew that there would be certain days at work that would be more difficult than others.

I am not a natural leader. There are many things about being in charge that I don’t like and consequently, as I approach the office on a day in which I have to take the helm of my department, I know that at some point there will be certain irritations that will wind me up, anger me, piss me off or lessen in some other way, usually the soul-destroying banality of some of the material I have to deal with, my will to live. I’m sure natural leaders, or people who have learned the art, also confront these obstacles. They just know how to deal with them while presenting an outward constancy to the people they are leading.

One of the irritations about being in charge is that you have to put up with all the little resentments harboured by the people around you. Maybe you’ve got some yourself. But do you keep them to yourself, professionally, or do you let them rip to make point?

Yesterday I had to put up with – let’s call him Patrick. Experienced, been round the block, good at his job. As we embraced the new media landscape a couple of years ago he was turned down for a few jobs. I was his ally then; we despaired together, even though I was appointed to a role for which he also applied. Lately I detect some push by him to freeze me out and I’ve no idea why. He’s very cliquey. There are certain lucky people who will be privileged to join one of his whispered conversations, or go out for supper with him. He’s appointed himself the Godfather of British journalism, he’s always pressing management on behalf of the troops, always has some gem of inside information that may or may not be true, he says he has the ear of The Boss, or rather, that The Boss uses him as his eyes and ears in the newsroom. He’s also a pig, constantly spraying food and drink – he seems to prefer to pontificate with his mouth full – all over whichever desk he happens to be sitting at, along with his dandruff, without any regard for the next person who will use it (those details are gratuitous, but I’m supposed to be getting things off my chest here).

I don’t covet his friendship and, were I lucky enough not to have been given the role I have, I would be quite happy just to ignore him and let him get on with his little obsessions and issues.

But instead I have to go along with his need to prove himself to be a cut above everybody else, spotting the things that no one else spots, towering above the people around him. Yesterday he took it upon himself to improve a story that was dull but would have sustained a reader through the first four pars maybe, and turned it into a story that would prove so numbing that no one would get past the considerably lengthened intro.

It’s in these situations that I don’t know what to do. Do I put my foot down and say: no, that’s not better, it’s worse, thereby winding up the godfather, who has invested time and his precious esteem in his effort. Or do I let it go, in the belief that it’s better for everybody if he feels good about himself. I let it go, but more because it was the easy option than anything else. One thing that I find all too easy is to pick the wrong fight.

So, wearied, from these choices – which ultimately mean nothing – I left the office. I did not put up much of a fight; the fact that it was a Friday spurred my indulgence a little anyway, and into the Shell station I pulled.

I had been clean since Monday night. It was a good effort but I have to wipe out these “work-stress” fags. There’s a danger here though. There are many ways you can divide up the newsroom. One is those who do and don’t give a fuck. I bitterly resent those who don’t and do not want to make myself one of them. You can probably tell I’m not the competitive type. I think it’s quite right that my position, with its obligation to stand in for the boss when he’s not there, puts me above the rabble. I get paid well. But really sometimes I just think I’d rather have a quiet life, get on with my own job rather than worry about others doing theirs, and go home relaxed, without a packet of cigarettes in my pocket.

Morning glory

It’s before 9am. I woke early and couldn’t get back to sleep. That in itself is not a good thing, especially in view of the fact that it was after 3am before I went to bed (which is normal for me). But it is a triumph in that the reason for that lack of sleep is my not having had a cigarette yesterday.

I spent yesterday working on my book, dealing fairly well with the urges and the evening was spent having dinner with Maria who, even though she is insistent that we are just friends, made me feel good because everybody else in the restaurant didn’t know that. My esteem rose because of what they were assuming was going to happen when we left, which only happened in my mind (though I get the impression that maybe it might have crossed her mind once or twice – we’ll see). Her company is infectious and uplifting. She is beautiful, demonstrative, rather too loud for my liking (people tend to look, if you know what I mean), and passionate about her passions (namely saving the world from climate disaster). All the things you’d expect from an Argentine.

We left the restaurant, a local one, at about 11pm and I walked her to the station. Between there and my flat there is only one place with a tractor beam, one possible place to buy cigarettes.

I can’t pretend that this was easy. As soon as I kissed her goodnight I knew what the challenge was. How to get home. There was one possible alternative route that could have taken me home without passing an open shop but that would have meant going via the common, a very long way round, and not particularly inviting at that time of night. It was also rather chilly. So I just decided to go for it. I honestly don’t know what I would have done if this hadn’t been the case, but imagine my relief when the Asian guys who run the shop were locking the metal shutters on the outside just as I approached. After that I knew I’d done it and instead of looking forward to fag on arriving home, which is what I would have done before, I looked forward to a nice bath, a good book, followed by some telly (I’m not addicted to the TV, you understand, it’s just that with working at night, if there is anything good on, I have to record it) – a BBC history of the ocean liner, which was excellent, and the concluding part of Spiral II, which has been disappointing since its plot defects render it almost impossible to take seriously. It’s really nowhere near the standard of the American shows from which it is shamelessly derived.

Anyway, this lack of sleep thing can be a problem, though I didn’t have any trouble actually getting to sleep, which would be worse. I’m evidently over that. But I obviously haven’t been consuming enough nicotine chewy, though I think it gives me heartburn so it’s not ideal. The patches are such a pain in the arse. I might have to go and get one of those inhaler things.

Anyway, today is free as well. I intend to make some serious progress with the book, although I wouldn’t mind going to the cinema this afternoon. It’s a lovely day. I’m feeling quite positive.

You can be sure of Shell

The other thing that the Shell station sells is petrol. And as I left the office last night, it crossed my mind that I was probably low on fuel. I just hoped that I could get home without filling up; since I wouldn’t be working for the next couple of days, and wouldn’t need the bike, that would give me three clear days without smoking. I know from past quitting attempts that filling up without buying cigarettes is a significant milestone and I knew that I wouldn’t be ready to face it just yet.

As soon as I switched on the engine, on came that amber fuel light. I tried to convince myself that my feelings were mixed but in fact I was elated at the prospect of a fag on reaching home. And part of that euphoria was that I was blameless. Could I be blamed? We all knew what the score was, didn’t we? It was all upfront.

I never really made any attempt to fight it. It all seemed so natural. Perhaps the link seems tenuous. It might do, to someone free from such slavery. But I have bought my fags from that Shell station, on the way home, for years. I have never bought petrol without buying fags – they are just there, after all, just behind the guy in the red T-shirt and they’re bound to be required at some point either today or tomorrow (never later).

Now it’s the morning (well it’s just turned midday actually) and I’ve just put the remains in the bin. I smoked three. The good news is that none of them was what I would term an enjoyable cigarette. Again, perhaps the first drags of the first probably gave me some kind of relief but after that it was all about that master-servant thing that fags establish with you. You smoke because you can. They make you smoke because they can. They make sure you know who’s the boss. It is callous, ruthless gangsterism.

So now I’m faced with two days free. It has been raining since I came home last night. Still, I have my book to work on and tonight I go out with the beautiful – well let’s call her Maria – whom I met on an internet dating site, a normal internet dating site that is. She insists she just wants to be my friend, and even wants to help me find a girlfriend, which is very nice of her. I, on the other hand, want Maria in every way possible, though her innocence and conservatism, despite her strident progressive views on all the things that strident progressives have views on, will ultimately either prevent this or doom any resultant tryst to oblivion.

One small step

It’s a miniscule step, I know, but I managed it. I’m here, back from work, without fags. I have a glass of rioja, which I can enjoy without the taste being ruined by a million and one chemicals, and a tube of peanuts to keep me occupied.

Mentally I feel fine. I feel I should list the positive aspects:

• I don’t have to stand in the kitchen window getting cold (the nights are beginning to get a bit chilly)
• The flat won’t get unnecessarily cold
• I and the flat don’t stink
• I’ve saved £3.24 (that’s the extortionate 1am, ie Shell station, price)
• My breathing is that little bit better
• I have proved I can go through a day without smoking.

 I managed to fight off several urges in the office and on the way home I had passed the Shell station before giving the subject a thought. I didn’t feel that tractor beam pulling me in the way it’s been doing for years. I must stay focused.

Smoking is other people

Smoking is other people. I’ve long thought this. Yesterday would have been clean; I’m sure it would have been, if it were not for my neighbour.

I had plenty to do. I rose later than usual at about midday. I usually aim to get up no later than 11am but committing my thoughts to wherever it is they are going (the ether, I suppose) seems to be keeping me up rather later. But once up, I started the day pretty positively.

I began by making contact with a woman on an internet site. I’d call it a dating site but, well, it’s not important for now. I’ll go into it later. The point is we had a brief chat on the phone and then I agreed to send her my picture (her profile made clear: looks not important, which always catches my eye). I sent it. And then I moved on to the day’s main event, finalising some text for a book I’m working on.

I’d settled down when my neighbour arrived home. Often he can be relied upon to stay out for most of Saturday afternoon. He runs a tawdry business in which he poses as someone who cares for a charitable cause, dodges his taxes and gets pissed for the rest of time, in his flat with his whale of a girlfriend. They live upstairs.

So, yesterday, as I was trying to concentrate I had to put up with the sounds of yelps and howls from this guy, who is in his late-40s. I try to block this sound out. It is like a disability, or a fatal personal flaw. I cannot allow myself to dwell on it or to stop me doing what I want so I try my best to ignore the stomping across the ceiling, the howling, the hammering on the table as he is in the upswing of his session, when everything seems great and getting pissed in your flat with your grotesque girlfriend (again) seems like the best way to pass an afternoon ever. My bedroom, which is my office, is directly underneath their lounge, a few feet away from being directly underneath the table in the window where he sits to clock the totty in the street as he’s getting pissed (an understandable pursuit given his girlfriend situation). I battled away, trying to blot it out. As you may know, it is precisely the kind of frustration that can be, apparently, remedied by a cigarette.

I stood up, paced around the flat for a while, flicked through the paper. Then I logged back on to that website I was talking about, thinking this might offer me the prospect of some excitement that would dull my anger at my neighbour and provide me with an alternative and ultimately healthier vice than smoking. Sex beats smoking any day.

There was no reply to my emailed pic. I messaged her on the site; no reply. I waited. Even now – it’s about 2pm – she has not responded. I don’t mind the fact that she doesn’t fancy me, and I’ve been through this process so many times that I didn’t get particularly excited about it, but why not just drop a simple line saying “sorry, but you’re just not my cup of tea”?

I returned to the book. My neighbour – let’s call him George – was still stomping, drumming on the table and ranting at his girlfriend – let’s call her Teresa (she’s Italian). I cracked. It was a slow crack. I put on my trainers then paced the lounge telling myself that I should be fully aware of what I was doing. Then I did the same once I put my coat on. Then I picked up my keys and paced some more. Then I went out to the little shop down the road. But crack I did.

It’s raining quite heavily today so they are actually in now as I write. If he’s not getting pissed, George needs something to do. But the problem is that he is a lazy bastard. He can’t sit still. I often get the impression that he is just emptying a cupboard and filling it up again.

So here I am. I am about to go to work. I will try to go through the day without smoking. I could feel last night that my chest feels distinctly worse after this few days’ aberration and I can feel that twitch in my chest that the doctor told me not to worry about since it was a symptom of anxiety over quitting smoking. My body, is insisting that I stop. But it’s my head, my mind. And other people. The new girl in the office (that’s still gnawing at me); the woman who won’t reply when I send a pic; and these two upstairs. Without these people, I would have been clean; I would feel so much better about myself.

Beginning postponed

Whatever I say, it will sound lame.

The culprit I have identified is the calendar. It’s a Friday. I need a culprit because I need to know that there is some factor, some temporary entity, that won’t be present tomorrow, the revised day on which the reassertion of the drive to quit comes into force.

Fridays are odd in that they are often quiet at work and there’s often a more relaxed atmosphere. It’s the day before Saturday, after all, when there’s no work. This Friday was particularly leisured because of a fortunate mismatch of summertime across the Atlantic which, avoiding the tedious details, meant that my break – sometimes we call it “lunch”, even though it occurs at about 9.30pm usually – was twice as long as it should be. And as all you other addicts will know, time on your hands can be fatal.

It was a classic lesson in the thinness of the thin end of the wedge. I’d already broken the fast so it was therefore less important that I should go and buy another pack. Tomorrow, I said, tomorrow will be the time to get back on track. And since the US clocks adjust to the end of summer at the weekend, there will be no more two-hour breaks that will allow my mind the freedom and irresponsibility of wandering “off-message”.

So yes, I’ll say it bluntly: I’ve just had a cigarette. In my break I went out to get another pack of ten and then stood outside with a security guard and a rather lovely Polish girl who works in the canteen, and had a fag. I was gratified by how strange this felt; the strangeness was a mark of the progress I’ve made. I used to do this several times a day without giving it a second thought. But today I’m happy to report that the ciggie, apart from maybe the first drag, was wholly unsatisfying. I can’t hide the fact that this depressed me – not the lack of satisfaction but simply the fact that I was being controlled by some urge that provided no utility. But the crucial positive point is that I did not enjoy it.

At home, safe in my dark kitchen (I have always smoked in the dark), it’s another matter though. The cigarette I’ve just had was on my mind during the entire journey home. For me these are the most stubborn ones, the ones that are hardest to beat, those ground-in stains. These are the ones I always enjoyed the most. Arriving home in the small hours, the world is silent, peaceful; there’s little noise from traffic and even the noise from my neighbour upstairs (something else that will feature again if I maintain this journal) is virtually absent. It is the perfect time for contemplation and a packet of Marlborough Lights was the perfect companion for that.

But the one I’ve just had was quite a frightening really. I went through my routine on arriving home: come in, draw the blinds, get changed, chuck my jacket and boots in the spare room, turn on the bedroom light, switch on the computer, put on my lolling clothes. And then I went to my bag to fetch the fags. I delved in among the scraps of paper, strips of paracetamol, nicotine chewy, condoms, bulldog clips and assorted other crap. I couldn’t find them. I was then rather suddenly gripped by what can only be described as a panic attack. I turned the bag upside down completely and spread the contents on the floor, cursing. “What a prick,” I thought. “I must have left them in my draw in my desk.”

I was on the point of putting my boots back on to go round to the 24-hour Tesco store to buy some more when I wandered into the kitchen and spotted them on the counter. I had obviously been so keen that my routine was broken by my putting the pack in there even before I had pulled the blinds.

It reminds me what I’m up against; I can’t remember such a panic before. But then I have just sat here and written a whole page during the time I would normally have been stood in the kitchen with the orange dot in orbit about my cramped form leaning on the sink. So the blog is doing its job.

 

Things were indeed so quiet in the office that I even went out at midnight for a second smoke, only marginally more satisfying since I was alone on this occasion, my preferred state for smoking, and didn’t have to fend off the musings of the security guard. On re-entering the office I met a group of my colleagues leaving for the night. And who should I find walking towards me on her way out? Yesterday’s “trigger”. Up until this exchange, I hadn’t actually spoken to her. She looked at me (and I should say I have no evidence that she knows that I was the one who altered her work) in silence and was taken by surprise when I said “see yah” in as friendly a tone as I could muster.

Admittedly, it may not have come across as friendly; it all happened so quickly that I didn’t really have time to even put a smile on my face. But all things considered, I’m putting it down as a positive outcome. I showed magnanimity, which is always a triumph. And if my demeanour carried some kind of “attitude” then at least it satisfies me that I communicated some form of objection to her conceit, if there was any.

 

Anyway, none of these matters will rear their heads tomorrow. The day is mine, without stress. I have plenty to do. I work on Sunday, also a less frantic day, then Monday and then I have a couple of days off. It’s a good moment to get back on track.

 

Beginning again

I am a sick man…I am an angry man. I am an unattractive man. I think there is something wrong with my heart.

It’s a complex business. Although I gave up about four weeks ago, it hasn’t been a clean four weeks. I’ve cracked once or twice, buying ten, smoking a few and then running the rest under the tap before putting the pack in the bin. So really it doesn’t count. Does it? If I was a company trying to put a shine on my results, I’d make up some nonsense ratio about smoked cigarettes per waking hour and dangle it as some kind of industry standard by which I would come out looking not too bad. I don’t want to admit that I haven’t actually given up though. I need to cling to something.

Which is why I write, I need some mechanism, some catharsis – something to do I suppose, something to fill in the gaps when I would be doing it. Maybe people will read and sympathise and offer helpful comments; I’m not sure. This blogging business is very new to me and I’m slightly uncomfortable with its implicit egoism and self-publicity, which is why it’s anonymous (though that’s not particularly radical, I realise). But it needs to be anonymous so that I can be completely honest, which is essential if it is to be meaningful.

I’ve just had a cigarette. And now I need to refocus, again. After smoking for 20years, the cigarette is connected to everything in my life and now I must learn to live alone, truly alone. So when an incident at work resulted in my demon telling me that I deserved, as compensation for the discomfort, a discrete ciggie, which couldn’t do any real harm to the campaign overall, I caved in.

The job doesn’t help. I work for a media company. The days of hacks being hard-drinking, hard-smoking, self-destructive tragedians is long gone. Most of my colleagues don’t smoke. But stress, which varies in its intensity and duration, is an obvious trigger. I’m actually fairly immune to it; I’m good at my job (I hope nobody minds me saying that) and it’s not a problem. The problem, more often than not, is other people. As it was tonight (I work at night, though I daresay I’ll return to that subject, another massive factor, in the near future).

There’s somebody new, who has stood out quite obviously in these past couple of weeks as someone who knows her onions. She clearly has no intention of staying in her bit-part role for too long. I was reviewing her work. It was competent but not great. I altered it; improved it somewhat. She came over to a colleague, having noticed the change, to point out that there was a mistake in it. It wasn’t a heinous crime, it could, even, have been argued, and it probably wouldn’t have attracted opprobrium from any quarter, but in the environment I work in, which values accuracy above everything, she had a point.

So why was this stressful? Well because I was embarrassed; because I obviously shouldn’t be making mistakes; because she is an upstart. Because I couldn’t help wondering why she had checked back on what she’d done since it was a mind-numbingly routine story that shouldn’t, to any right-minded individual, be of any consequence. There seemed to be something a little conceited and uppity about it.

Of course, these are all failings with me as an individual. No doubt there are ways to handle this; they must have a whole module on this type of thing in management school. I haven’t been there. I’m not a natural manager; I’m an addict. It gnawed at me all night. The upshot was that on the way home I stopped at the Shell station and bought ten Marlborough Lights. And so, once again any passer-by, straggler from the pub, kerb-crawling black-cab driver or observant fox who happened to look up at my flat would have just now been able to spot the tell-tale smouldering orange dot, with it’s irregular celestial motion amid the deep, dark space of my kitchen.

By tomorrow, I will be back on track. I know now that by the time I wake up and smell the smoke in the flat and see the remains in the ashtray, I will feel violated, my self-worth will have been dented a little more. I will feel weak, for that cannot be disputed. But I will take heart from the fact that the smoking is over.