I don't want to be one of these. Unless I've done particularly well at something and want a prize à la three-year-old child, smugness is something that should be resigned to the corridors of history along with all the other new parents who've managed to achieve what animals have done for light years but just know they've done better by producing the miracle that is young Jamie.
Similarly, smug ex-smokers are one of the worst things about smoking. Particularly the wafters - I can't bear those and always had to fight the urge to grab their furiously waving hand and punch them in the face with it.
Unfortunately it seems that there's an alternative peril to smug ex-smokers, and that's the awe that giving up inspires. I took my friend Issy to watch Amy Winehouse give a gratuitously unbothered performance at Somerset House last week and afterwards we went for drinks and food on plush sofas at the afterparty on Embankment.
Dropping her off at the tube afterwards, I asked her if she'd given up smoking as I hadn't seen the slightest sign of a Marlboro menthal all evening.
"Oh no," she said, looking slightly panicked, "I've been dying for one for hours, but you've been doing so well I didn't want to tempt you."
I hate myself all over.