What’s life without a challenge?

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In September last year I competed in my first Olympic distance triathlon, having tested the water with two sprint distance races in 2009 and 2010. To ensure I was fit enough to get round the course I joined a triathlon club. The first two sessions were so tough I cried, and it didn’t get much easier as the weeks went on.

By far the worst part of triathlon training for me was the swimming. As the fat kid who was always picked last for team sport at school, swimming was my arch nemesis. What could possibly be worse for a body conscious ten year old whose puppy fat stubbornly refused to disappear than shoving said fat into a tight, unflattering swimming costume and belly flopping into the pool in front of her classmates?

Fast forward twenty years and I still lack confidence in the water. Even after numerous lessons and triathlon club drill sessions I couldn’t shake the feeling I was the uncoordinated whale of the group, bringing up the rear behind the graceful, frolicking dolphins before me.

But nonetheless I fought my fear. And, whilst the mile long swim on race day felt like swimming the Channel itself rather than a lap of the Docklands, the fact is that I not only did it, I finished the race in a very respectable three hours and thirteen minutes.

Now I can’t say I’ve been back to the lido since the race (it has been winter!) but, just over three months down the line, I can feel the beginnings of that familiar fire in my belly; the seed of desire for another challenge.

When I think back to the pain of those 90 minute spin sessions, the stress of fitting training around work and social life and the general exhaustion that comes with taking on a massive sporting challenge as an addendum to normal life, I wonder if I’m mad to want to do it all again.

But then I think back to my chubby ten year old self and tell myself I’m doing it for HER-I’m making up for all the shame and embarrassment that she felt because she wasn’t good at sport in a school that valued being good at sport almost above being good at academia.

It may be time consuming, stressful and exhausting taking on extreme physical challenges, but it’s also exhilarating, motivating and a great way to keep fit.

And with this post I think I’ve just convinced myself to sign up for the sixteen mile run I’ve been deliberating over for the past few days. Here we go again…

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Okay, I’ll admit it, I didn’t come first. This was an opportunistic leap onto the winners’ podium post-race. But I was so elated in that moment that I may as well have won the race. It certainly lay a few childhood demons to rest.

Why no child should suffer

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Seeing as today has been entirely taken up by arranging media interviews for the NSPCC’s ‘Don’t wait until you’re certain’ campaign launch tomorrow it makes sense for today’s post to touch on the importance of tackling child abuse. Before I continue, I should make it quite clear that whilst I work for the NSPCC all views expressed on this blog are entirely my own.

As a child of the eighties I was distressed to hear the allegations against Jimmy Savile when they first came to light at the end of last year. I remember writing numerous letters to Jim’ll Fix It when I was about ten years old, asking him to fix it for me to meet Kylie and Jason. At the time I was distraught not to be chosen but now I, like many others, am left feeling that I had a lucky escape.

Sadly the abuse of children by adults in positions of trust is not a phenomenon that died with Savile. It’s true that as a result of the media furore hundreds have come forward about abuse they suffered at the hands of Savile and other celebrities many years ago, but it’s important to acknowledge that child abuse is as much a problem today as it was back then, it’s just that nowadays it’s harder for paedophiles to operate as flagrantly.

Every single day children across the UK are subjected to horrendous abuse at the hands of adults who are meant to be their protectors. What’s scary is these aren’t celebrities, but normal people like you or me. Or at least that’s how they appear. Can you imagine what it must feel like to be one of those children? Confusing, distressing and painful don’t even begin to cover it.

The longer abuse is allowed to continue the greater the risk to the child, not only in a physical sense but also a mental one – because mental scars take far longer to heal than physical ones. This is why the NSPCC is taking its ‘Don’t wait until you’re certain’ film to a wider audience as a television advert, starting tomorrow.

Critics may scoff and say the charity is encouraging false allegations, but in my opinion if one child is saved from a childhood of torture – and, let’s face it, that’s exactly what child abuse is – because someone sees the advert and takes action on their behalf then it will have been a success.

The bottom line is that no child should have to suffer from abuse. The recent media coverage has felt gratuitous at times but it has brought child abuse into the spotlight, and until we stamp out child abuse once and for all that’s exactly where it needs to stay.

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For this post I thought I’d share a pic of me when I was a baby, taken at a fair with my wonderful mother. I had a fantastic childhood filled with love, laughter and security, despite my parents divorcing when I was little. It makes me so sad to think of all the thousands of children who aren’t so lucky.

History

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The pub was steeped in history. Charlotte could feel it the moment she walked through the door. She stooped so as not to hit her head on the dark wooden beams, which were bedecked with brass casts of horse shoes and other relics of the time in which the building was conceived. There was a coat rack by the door, which she duly deposited her rain-soaked jacket onto. She turned around and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room before approaching the bar. The floor was carpeted, a crimson blanket, the windows partially obscured by heavy velvet drapes of the same colour. Oil lamps burned on every table, the light barely filtering through their thick glass shades. In the hearth a log fire crackled and hissed, sending thick plumes of smoke into the chimney chute about it.

Charlotte took a step towards the bar and faltered, feeling suddenly anxious. Her skin prickled, the hairs standing up for no discernible reason. She surveyed the room again. Only two of the mahogany tables were occupied, one by a middle-aged man who was engrossed in the crossword, the other by a family of four, the parents struggling to control their hyperactive children. Charlotte looked at her watch. It was only quarter past twelve. She supposed the lunchtime rush would soon start, though there was no sign of it yet. Despite the man and family sitting to her left, Charlotte felt disquietingly alone.

A movement out of the corner of her eye made her jump. Her breathing quickened as her eyes darted to the right. She squinted into the dark corner of the room. There was nothing there. She took a deep breath and walked towards the bar, reaching a hand out to steady herself as a wave of nausea came over her. The clinking of glasses alerted her to the presence of a girl, about her age, who was walking out of the kitchen. She stopped when she saw Charlotte, put the glasses down, smiled and asked if she could help. Charlotte ordered an orange juice and fumbled in her purse to find the coins to pay. When the drink arrived a sudden thirst took hold of her and she swallowed it in one go.

It was then she saw him. He stood on the staircase to the right of the bar, so still he could have been a statue. His hair was smoothed against his head, his shirt freshly pressed. Charlotte’s heart hammered in her chest. She looked at the girl behind the bar, who had gone back to cleaning glasses. Did she not see? Then back to his face, weathered and beaten. His dark eyes bored into her. His mouth, lips slightly parted, seemed wanting to form words to speak.

She got there first.

“Hello Dad. It’s been a while.”

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I thought this image was a befitting accompaniment to today’s post. I took it in a makeshift cinema in Vashisht, a hillside village in northern India which is a haven for backpackers. The man in the picture ran the cinema, which was little more than a room with a flat screen television and cushions scattered on the floor. His daughter was so beautiful, like a little china doll. I was quite captivated.

The path to dotage

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It’s a depressing fact that my generation will be required to work well into what was, by previous generations, considered to be the dotage period of life. I for one am particularly aggrieved by this knowledge, because hand on heart I can’t say I have ever had a job that I have ‘loved.’ I’ve come close once or twice, but generally speaking ever since I left university I’ve been drifting from one job to another, each time hoping it would be the ‘dream job,’ each time being disappointed.

At times I have questioned whether the ‘dream job’ does, in fact, exist at all, but I believe for a lucky few it does. My best friend, for example, works long hours and is often dog tired, but she enjoys her job enormously and freely admits it. Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve only had one job that I could say I hated (with every fibre of my earthly being, but that’s another story that we won’t go into here). All the others have been good in some ways, but ultimately not fulfilling enough to stay. But maybe, as I say, such a phenomenon is rare, and those of us who aren’t blessed with the perfect job pairing in our lives should seek fulfilment elsewhere, through hobbies, volunteering and so forth.

One thing I have learned in the course of my ten year (has it really been that long?!) career is that it’s better to be too busy than too quiet. If you have to spend eight hours (and the rest) a day in a soulless, strip lit office, you may as well fill your hours as much as possible to make them go quicker. There is nothing, and I mean NOTHING worse than being bored. And it’s just as well I feel that way, as this week most days I’ve  been in the office by 8am every day and haven’t seen daylight until gone 7pm, notching up an impressive 13+ hours of overtime.

Of course the downside of being rushed off your feet at work is that the days tend to just merge into one long round of waking before it’s light, commuting, frantically trying to plough through everything on the to do list, commuting back, eating, sleeping and getting up again.

But I shouldn’t complain. In the current financial climate I’m lucky to even HAVE a job, and the world of PR is a fickle beast – when I’m flat out busy it’s downright exhausting, but it’s also exhilarating when all the hard work of selling in a story pays dividends.

Nonetheless, I’d rather like to make my millions a la JK Rowling in the not too distant future, because the thought of spending the next 39 years with my nose to the grindstone, slogging my guts out for somebody else’s reward, just isn’t that appealing. And living in a beach hut in the Philippines, well, that really rather is…

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This photo was taken towards the end of my travels last year, whilst languishing on the private balcony of my friend’s 5* hotel room in Koh Tao, Thailand. I remember thinking as I lay there that my freedom was nearly at an end, and revelling in the twilight of what had been an amazing adventure. The book, The Beach, has always represented to me the ultimate freedom, a form of escapism (as reading itself is), and so when I look at this picture I feel somehow this is what I’m aspiring to get back to, if that makes any sense. It’s been a long week.

 

Past Post: Gone

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Something a bit different for tonight. I’ve trawled through some of my previous writing and come across this little gem from SIX WHOLE YEARS AGO. It’s short and sweet, and could do with a bit of a re-write if I’m perfectly honest but there’s something about it I like, which is why I’ve chosen to share it with you as this week’s past post:

He left today, without warning. Not even a hint of what was to come as he kissed me goodbye at the door. He said he loved me, that he’d never leave. So what do I do now? I’m sitting at the kitchen table staring out across the fields of corn, watching as the stalks dance in the breeze to a tune that only they can hear. 

It is a beautiful day, with not a cloud in the sky – and warm too, so warm for this time of year. It’s only May and yet today could pass for July.

We were married in July, twenty glorious years ago.

I think I’ll make some coffee. Yes, that will help to make sense of things. He always used to laugh at me for saying that, but it’s true. 

My mind begins to wander. Where is he now – and who with? Is he happy? No, I can’t imagine he is happy at this moment, no matter who he’s with. The wounds will still be too fresh, as they are for me. I am not yet out of his system. Perhaps I never will be. I hope not.

I am angry – twisted and bitter and utterly inconsolable. How could he leave? We were so happy! Or were we? Could I have done more? Could I have made him stay if I’d known what was coming? Probably not.

My coffee is cold. I have no idea how long the phone has been ringing.

‘Hello?’ My voice does not sound like my own.

‘Mum?’

This will be hard, she will not understand any better than me.

‘Mum?’ she says again, anxiety creeping into her voice. ‘I got your message – what’s happened?’

My beautiful daughter. Our beautiful daughter. How can I tell you that your father has left us? That we are, to all intents and purposes, alone?

‘He’s gone,’ I say bluntly in that same alien voice.

‘Gone?’ she repeats, bewildered.

I try to explain. She says she’ll be here soon.

Now I have returned to my window vigil, willing him to return. He walked through that field not two hours ago. Before he left me. Before he left us.

He lies there still, among the glorious sprays of daffodils.

He lies there still. 

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This is the most appropriate picture I could find in the archives to accompany this post, though I must confess I can’t quite remember where it was taken. I think it was most likely southern India – perhaps there are some butterfly buffs reading this who will know?!

Food glorious food

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I’m not a natural cook, but stick me in a kitchen with some simple raw ingredients, a recipe book and a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio and I’ll have a damn good crack at producing something that’s half way edible. Without a recipe I’m rather less confident, with a vastly reduced repertoire consisting mainly of, well, spaghetti Bolognese. But to me it doesn’t matter what I cook, it’s the act of cooking I find enjoyable. The problem is that I, like many others, rarely make the time to do it.

The sad fact is when working all the hours God sends its often cooking that drops off most peoples’ registers. And who can blame them? If you’re routinely trooping through your front door after nine o’clock each night the last thing you feel like doing is deboning a sea bass and whipping up a pomegranate and red wine jus. Far easier to whack a frozen ready meal in the microwave, or even grab the nearest takeaway menu and slump onto the sofa.

But the funny thing is that if you can find the strength to drag yourself into the kitchen and create something from scratch, it has an oddly therapeutic effect. I don’t know whether it’s the act of cooking itself – chopping and grating, seasoning and tasting – that is so soothing or the fact the time spent doing it creates much needed space for your brain to relax. But whatever it is I believe that cooking is good for the soul.

And then there’s eating. I’ve often posited that I would be an exceptional candidate for a career in competitive eating, such is my love of (and inability to produce normal-sized plates of) food. Diets have never held much sway with me, for I come from the school of thought that suggests food is one of the great pleasures of life. Why should we deprive ourselves of what we love?

As long as you’re not stuffing yourself with saturated fats at every opportunity the occasional treat is fine – my particular weaknesses being chocolate and Big Mac meals on a hangover (I am eating chocolate as I write this). Everything in moderation, including (and yes, I know this is boring) regular exercise is the way to lead a healthy and contented life – not existing on Ryvita with a hot water and paprika chaser from dawn until dusk. Where’s the joy in that? I’ll take an extra roll of back fat over shoulder blades so sharp they can cut through glass any day of the week.

Now where’s that takeaway menu…

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I couldn’t write a post about my love of food without referencing this bad boy: The Breakfast Burrito, which weighs about the same as a newborn baby. The first time I ordered one of these on Koh Tao I was told most people can only manage half. Needless to say I ate the whole thing in minutes and returned most mornings afterwards to do the same. It was, in short, an artery-hardening lump of wickedly delicious ingredients, and if it shortened my life by a few months (as I’ve no doubt it did) then all I can say is that it was very much worth it. So there.

A little glimpse of Heaven

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Sunrise; a time of day few city dwellers appreciate though many are awake, negotiating the vast metropolis maze to work. The lucky ones catch glimpses of the sky through train or car windows as the sun’s rays edge heavenwards, but most are underground on tubes or too engrossed in papers or Kindles to look up and see the beauty that surrounds them. Wispy threads of cloud shimmer pink against a backdrop of pure blue, like dancers on a stage, receiving scant attention though they glisten and gleam with all their might. Swallows dip and dive on the horizon, as blackbirds sing their morning songs to a waking world.

Sunset; made lazy by the exertions of the day the sun begins to sag against the sky, as commuters trudge with sympathetic legs to homes and bars and gyms to shake the remnants of the day. The pink which earlier ran in tributaries through the blue now forms great rivers that forge their way through a purple landscape. If beauty is in the eye of the beholder surely this is the moment we were destined to behold?

Sunrise and Sunset; I’ve always loved these times the best. Two moments in time when the possibilities of what’s to come and the knowledge of what’s gone before come into focus in a myriad of colour and light. Two moments in time when even unbelievers might believe what they are seeing is a little glimpse of Heaven.

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I have a lot of stunning sunset pictures from my travels, but this is one of my absolute favourites. I remember vividly sitting in the bar in the marina at Kota Kinabalu, Borneo, having a beer with my fellow Raleigh volunteers, when someone told me to turn around and admire the sunset. When I did my jaw almost hit the floor. It was like looking at a giant acryllic painting. Absolutely stunning.

He wasn’t far from home

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He wasn’t far from home when his phone buzzed in his coat pocket. He pulled it out, admired its shininess, swooshed his finger across the screen to answer the call and held it up to his ear. It was his mum. She’d forgotten to buy beans to go with the potato waffles for his tea. He’d have to go back to the shop. There should be enough change from the ice cream, she said. There was, but only just – he’d bought some penny sweets too.

He wasn’t far from home when a blackbird swooped down in front of him and landed on a nearby branch, making him jump. It cocked its head to one side and snatched a berry from the tree, all the while its beady eyes fixed on him. He imagined it was a monster and hopped, skipped and jumped past it as quickly as his feet would carry him. He heard it squawk and fly off. He wondered what it would be like to be a bird. But he could never be a bird.

He wasn’t far from home when he heard a whirring sound getting closer and closer. He looked up at the sky just as an aeroplane flew directly overhead, like a GIANT bird – now that really COULD be a monster, he thought. It was so close it felt like he could reach out and touch it. He tried to do just that. But it wasn’t close really, Silly. How could it have been? He wondered what it would be like to be an aeroplane soaring through the sky. But he could never be an aeroplane.

He wasn’t far from home when he stopped in the middle of the street. He looked about him, then down at the puddle in front of him. Then Splosh! He jumped in right up to his ankles, even though he was wearing his best shoes and not his welly boots like his mum had told him to in case he got wet.

He wasn’t far from home when he saw Mrs Metcalfe from Number Fifty Seven on the other side of the road and waved. She shouted over to him that she had some spare coins in her purse and would he like them to buy penny sweets? He thought that yes, he rather would like that, and so he ran across the road to get them.

He wasn’t far from home when he heard the screeching of tyres on the road and the sound of an old lady screaming. He turned too late to get out of the way, but as he flew through the air he thought to himself that maybe he could be a bird or a plane after all.

He wasn’t far from home.

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Writing this story made me think of these two cutie pies, who were delighted to pose for me when I came across them on a walk around Luang Prabang, in Laos. God forbid anything as horrible befalls them as the poor little boy in my story. I bet they’ll grow into handsome young men and break lots of girls’ hearts 🙂

Go Getting

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Six days into my 365 day writing challenge and already I’ve cheated a bit. I mentioned my technological failings in the first post, and I was by no means exaggerating. It’s taken far longer than I had hoped to get this site set up, and whilst I haven’t been cheating with the actual writing – I have posted something every day on the WordPress blog linked to the site – I have in the sense that it’s still not ‘live.’ Which is why I’ve decided today is the day, and hang the design issues. If I wait any longer for ‘tech support’ (which feels strangely reminiscent of Vanilla Sky) to respond to my email I may never get the damn thing up and running, so please accept my apologies for the slightly-too-small font on The Writing page and don’t let it put you off reading – I will endeavour to fix this as soon as I possibly can.

On the subject of technological failings, I am reminded of the preface to this month’s Psychologies magazine (the only magazine I will allow myself to regularly purchase, and a throwback to my educational background), in which the editor, Clare Longrigg, says the following: “In today’s digital office, we often find ourselves puzzling over how to do this or that bit of uploading or formatting. Most of us wait for the technician to make time in his or her busy schedule. There are some, however, who get stuck in and, no matter how long it takes, figure out how to do it. They then become the go-to person who teaches everyone else.”

Mindful of this lesson, I refrained from asking anyone for help today as I battled to figure out the frustrating intricacies of the website building software, and I’m pleased to say that even though I didn’t find a solution for the font size issue in The Writing section, I did come quite a considerable way in developing my understanding of how websites work. It’s a small step but one that I’m proud of, because all too often I do just ask for help without trying to work out problems myself, and that, as Clare Longrigg quite rightly says, is the lazy person’s solution. To be a real go-getter you must push yourself to go and get; if others do it for you how will you ever learn and grow?

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I couldn’t think of a better image to represent the title of this blog than this one – the group shot of everyone on the Raleigh International expedition I volunteered on in January 2011. I was the Communications Officer on the expedition, and was fortunate to visit several of the community-based projects that the groups were working on. It was a fantastic three months and I met some truly inspirational people (my boyfriend among them!) I’d recommend the experience to anyone who is stuck in a rut and thinking that there must be ‘more’ to life – there is!

Past Post: Time to Quit

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A year ago today I finally packed in the fags. Pathetic as it sounds it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, so I really couldn’t be more proud of myself for reaching this milestone.

In honour of this great achievement I’ve decided to re-post the following blog entry from March 17 last year:

My biggest regret in life, absolutely and unequivocally, is starting smoking. At the tender age of fourteen when I had my first puff at a party and hated it, how could I possibly have known the impact it would have on my life and the misery it would cause when I tried to quit? When I look back at my teen self now I wish I could jump through time, snatch the cigarette out of my hand and stub it out, admonishing myself for even considering trying it. Because if I had never tried it I would never have got hooked, and I would never have known the mental and physical addiction I have suffered for the past fifteen years.

Don’t get me wrong, even at the height of my addiction I was never a particularly heavy smoker. Throughout my sixth form at school I smoked to be rebellious, sneaking outside the school gates with my friends during free periods and sharing a ten pack by the canal on a Saturday afternoon. By the time I got to university smoking was a part of me, and I relished the newfound freedom I had to do it anywhere I pleased, whether before lectures, during breaks or in my living room after uni (with a few sneaky spliffs thrown in for good measure). Everyone smoked, it was the norm, it never occurred to any of us to quit.

When I moved to London at the age of 21 and started working it began to bother me that I needed to smoke before work, during my breaks and in the evenings. I cut out the morning cigarettes, then the lunch time ones, then rationed myself to up to five on week nights (more at weekends). This seemed to work for a while, but gradually I started slipping back into bad habits. So I decided it was time to quit, and I bought the Allen Carr Easy Way to Stop Smoking book. I remember vividly reading the last page outside the Café Rouge at the end of my road, taking my final puff and stubbing it out on the ground, absolutely confident I would never start again.

Unfortunately circumstances, as well as willpower, were against me. My boyfriend at the time, with whom I cohabited, had no interest whatsoever in quitting smoking, and my request that he stop doing it in the flat was met with derision. How dare I suggest he change his normal routine of lighting up on the sofa every evening? And so he carried on, and within six weeks I cracked. Again, I remember it clearly – I was making the bed in the spare room when the smell of smoke seeping in from the living room became so acute in my nostrils that I couldn’t bear it. Something snapped in me, I stormed into the living room, picked up the packet of cigarettes, took one out and lit it. ‘Happy now?’ I asked my boyfriend. But of course he didn’t care.

Years went by and I went back to my five a day habit, trying to restrain myself as much as possible, congratulating myself when a smoke free day passed and deriding myself when I went over my limit. I wanted to stop, of course I did (two thirds of smokers do), but how could I when my boyfriend and entire circle of friends still smoked? I told myself one day everyone would just stop together. I would wait.

After splitting with my boyfriend I turned to alcohol and cigarettes to cope – there was no question of quitting then. Instead, I took a new approach. I got a new job where there was an on-site gym and started working on my fitness. I signed up for my first triathlon – a sprint distance – and began training. This was totally new to me, and I enjoyed the discipline. I felt healthier than I had in years, but still I didn’t stop smoking. Why should I? I reasoned, when I felt so well and it didn’t seem to have adverse effects on my training. But sometimes I would notice myself wheezing, and as I got nearer to the event I decided it was wise to have a month off smoking and drinking, in order to be fully primed for the event. So I quit. Just like that. No book, no gum, no patches. I went cold turkey and it was fine, though admittedly I also went cold turkey on my social life for those four weeks too.

How was it so easy? Because, and it shames me to admit it, there was never a shred of doubt in my mind that as soon as the event was over I would start smoking again. Just like that. Because I would have proved I could live without it and it wasn’t holding me prisoner after all. And I held true to my word – the very first thing I did after crossing the finish line was light a cigarette.

The following year I did another triathlon, adopting the same routine of abstinence and once again reverting to my old ways the minute it was over. It crossed my mind to try and make it more permanent – Lord knows I wished I could be strong enough to kick the habit once and for all, but being in some kind of control made me feel better.

The cycle continued. I went travelling, where inevitably my smoking increased fourfold. It bothered me, but smoking is such a social thing – in that kind of situation it can be a way into a group, the catalyst to a conversation. It is also a useful crutch when you’re at a loss for what to do, feeling lonely, stressed out or just plain bored. Although I wasn’t stupid enough to think that smoking defined me as a person, I was terrified at the thought of not having it in my life. It made me feel a bit edgy, bohemian, it relaxed me, calmed me down, took the edge off – or so I thought.

But the irony is that smoking doesn’t take the edge off. Not in the slightest. In fact, the truth of the matter is that it adds the edge in the first place. Nicotine is one of the most addictive substances in the world. Once your body has had a hit, it immediately wants more, and if you don’t give it more it goes into withdrawal and you feel anxious until you do. It’s a total myth that you’re in control of your habit if you’re only smoking at the weekends – it might mean you deal with withdrawal better than those who have to smoke every day, but it does not by any means prove you aren’t addicted. How do I know this? Because I was that person for fifteen years, fooling myself I was okay and in control. How do I know this was a fallacy? Because if you put me in a social situation where everyone else was smoking I simply couldn’t go without. I had to have one.

My intention with this post is not to preach about the physiology of cigarette addiction. It is actually purely cathartic, because now I have been free of my addiction for ten weeks – having once again read the book, taken a puff and stubbed my ‘last’ cigarette out underfoot – and am well past the point of having nicotine in my system I am still struggling with the mental addiction that fifteen years of smoking has inflicted upon me. I have no physical urge to smoke, granted, but when I’m with a group of friends who are smoking I still find it hard knowing that I can’t. I am delighted to be rid of the poison in my lungs, the smell in my hair and the constantly anxious feeling between cigarettes, but that doesn’t change the fact it would be easier to smoke than not. As childish as it sounds to say this, it just doesn’t seem fair that every night out now requires a serious amount of effort not to smoke, whereas before I just did it without thinking.

Some nights are easier than others. The first one after I quit was a disaster, culminating in me accusing my best friends of not speaking to me all night because I no longer smoked (which was completely untrue), running outside and breaking down in the middle of the road. Not my finest hour. Gradually, however, it got easier, and as the health benefits became more pronounced (I have definitely noticed a difference in my fitness) and the weeks went by I felt stronger in my resolve. Fortunately I now have a boyfriend who is far more understanding. He has the odd cigarette now and again socially, but he seems to be a genuine example of someone who can let weeks pass without doing it and suffer no ill effects whatsoever. Most importantly, he doesn’t smoke when he’s with me.

Last night I saw a good friend who quit just before I did. She went to an Allen Carr seminar to knock her ten-a-day habit on the head but, after weeks of revelling in its efficacy, is now struggling. It was as cathartic as writing this blog post for us to admit to one another we are finding it hard to keep going. We both appreciate every one of the positive outcomes of quitting – we are richer, healthier and no longer unable to sit through a meal in a restaurant without repeatedly dashing outside to feed our addiction (at a friend’s birthday meal earlier this week five of the eight people around the table got up to smoke between the starter and the main course – once that would have been me, and I would have done it without a thought, but now I find it plain annoying and really rather rude). Neither of us has any desire to start again, not really, but old habits really do die hard, and tragic as it is there is something so hard about breaking a social tradition and, let’s face it, feeling left out.

I am, however, encouraged by a weekend that I spent with friends in – of all places – Bognor Regis a couple of months ago. I was only in week three of being a non-smoker and was terrified it would be impossible for me to get through it without smoking – it was, after all, a three day music festival, where lots of alcohol would be drunk and where I would normally be in my element lighting up every ten minutes. In actual fact it wasn’t hard at all. Why? Because nobody in our group was smoking. Well, one was, and I’m sure one or two had the odd crafty fag here and there, but in the main we were a smoke free group all weekend, and I barely thought about doing it even though I was drinking.

I hope in time such weekends will become more commonplace, as more of my social group decide that smoking into their thirties just isn’t worth the health risks. But in the meantime I have got to stay strong and stick to my resolve. Ultimately it wasn’t even the health risks that made me quit, it was the simple fact I hated being a slave to my addiction. Any smoker who tells you they are in control is wrong. And you can prove it if you take away their cigarettes when all the shops have closed and watch the way they react. That is the reason I gave up – I didn’t want to feel that pathetic sense of panic ever again.

I’m enormously proud of myself for quitting (again), but I’m far from being a sanctimonious ex-smoker. Every day that goes by without smoking is an achievement, every night out a challenge that I have to face head on. I appreciate I probably sound quite tragic talking like this – after all, there are worse things in life than smoking cigarettes – but it’s important to be honest. It frightens me to think how easily I could start again – just one puff and I’d be back in the cycle I have been trying to break for half of my life. Which is why I can’t have that one puff – and I won’t.

In my teens and twenties I felt invincible, and smoking went hand in hand with social status and fun. Now I’ve turned thirty the scales have fallen from my eyes and the negative aspects of smoking – the constant twitchiness when you can’t smoke, the risk of getting lung cancer, the fact it makes your skin like leather, the downright antisocial nature of it – far outweigh the positives. Granted, it would be easier to light up when everyone else does than to check myself, decline and, in doing so, feel I’m missing out, but ultimately being healthy and free is the greatest reward there is. Yes, it’s hard, but it’s nowhere near as hard as fighting lung cancer, or looking like a sixty year old at the age of forty. I want to be healthy for years to come so I can run around after my children and live to see their children come into the world. I don’t want to be on a mortuary slab before I’m even seventy. Maybe that sounds extreme – the majority of my smoking friends argue incessantly that ‘just a few’ on a weekend is hardly likely to give you lung cancer. And maybe they’re right. But maybe they’re wrong. And that maybe is something I’m no longer prepared to risk in the name of ‘fun.’

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To accompany this post I’ve chosen this picture, taken during my two week stay at the Sivananda ashram in Kerala, India, last April. I was on a yoga vacation, which involved 4 hours of yoga and 4 hours of chanting and meditation each day, plus an entirely vegetarian diet and no tobacco or alcohol. We had to leave our mobile phones at the door – it was about as extreme a period of abstinence for a city dweller like myself as could be imagined, but I loved it!