I spent most of Saturday drunk. Deliciously, wilfully drunk. This is not a way of giving up smoking as far as I can tell, but it did mean that I had a bloody wonderful time at the Tories and Champagne wedding fest. The bride looked stunning and did that strange glowing thing that people do when happy. There were people I knew there, which doesn't happen often at weddings. I was asked to dance by men who were not related to me. I had one and a half cigarettes.
This isn't failure (although, actually, I suppose it is). Given the amount of booze, food and general bonhomie around I would usually have smoked upwards of 30.
Reasons to smoke at garden parties include:
- Catching your heel in the mud/grass/somebody's skirt and becoming deeply annoyed as a result.
- The terminally dull person
- The passing of time
Luckily there weren't any dull people there, and time passed itself quite happily. I had a whole cigarette after dinner because I thought I'd enjoy it, so there. And I did. I smoked it all the way to the end rather than getting bored and ditching it after a few drags, savouring the smoke through the benevolent haze of wine and liberated Champagne, and went and sat down again. It was good. I had a couple of drags off someone's cigarette later because they insisted on calling me Tiffany. I went and danced with my brother who'd just done his first obligatory man-at-weddings dancing with 7-year-old schtick, and a little gang of us went wild, sans-fags until a car came to remove us, Cinderella style.
There was a cigarette last night as well after my flatwarming. Jim came round as most people were drifting off and we sat about drinking wine and chatting. I got a bit tearful and this time did employ a roll-up as an emotional prop. But it was with Jim, not the ex. Which makes it alright I suppose.