Emotional Props

Last night, 1am, the classic time for a "fuck it, I need it" cigarette. I'd spent three hours on and off sparring with my now definitely ex-boyfriend, during which time he'd decided to sharpen every verbal weapon in his possession to a uniform state of bluntness and generally employ the textual equivalent of throwing me down stairs. How charming.

I wandered into the living room where my housemate was locked into the new Harry Potter game, fell into a glass of wine and his shoulder respectively and somewhere through the haze of panic, shaking and absolute fury, my selves had a little chat.

"Oh. How sad. You should probably have a cigarette."

"Shut up fuck face, I don't want one"

"But you're in emotional turmoil, this is the standard time to be having cigarettes."

"Yes, but this isn't exactly new territory with this manboy and I'd rather fall over a hurdle for a Gin Fizz."

"Loser. Go and cry on your housemate again."

I didn't have a cigarette. I did cry on my housemate. I did tell the ex to fuck off and manipulate someone else's life. I went to sleep without a cigarette.

After two hours manhandling a Harry Potter branded trunk for my cousin and a vast suitcase of crap across town and country, I arrived chez parents. I promptly inhaled two gin and tonics and two glasses of my dad's latest criminally cheap buy, a three quid Côtes du Rhône from Tesco that tasted of joy. Still don't want a fag. My mother has issued a decree that "WE don't really NEED to smoke anymore now, do WE" (free will is optional thanks to the sheer power wielded by my mother's cooking).

Now I'm busy making gooseberry jam and learning Woman things, while the sounds of my mum and grandma's "Aaaaaaah"s "Ooooooh"s and disappointed abuse at the Wimbledon semis floats through the door. The Champagne and Tories wedding party this evening signals my first party/smoking environment since last weekend. This is going to be either my greatest success, or my greatest failure.