I started smoking again this week.
Ugh. I really thought I'd cracked it this time, too. I'd lost count how long it had been since I've had a cigarette. I was committed; I hadn't had any of the usual cravings, mood swings or any of that rubbish - giving up this time had actually been fun.
Then, my wife and kids went away. On Monday, they all headed off down to the coast for a week's holiday, leaving me here to prepare for a major event I'm going to be running in a couple of weeks. It's my job to write the speeches, coach the presenters and generally make sure that everyone is on message, upbeat and full of the joys of corporate growth.
I call myself a writer, but I'm not exactly the writer I always wanted to be. I've written and published a variety of things over the years - short stories, poetry, non-fiction, you name it I've probably written it at some point. There's even a Haiku or two out there somewhere. But from the day I left university until now I've been a company man.
Over the years, I've been a researcher, a software developer, a PR man and for the last 5 years I've been in executive communications. All those words of wisdom that businessmen and politicians seemingly reel off with much charm and little effort? They're usually saying whatever people like me tell them to. Within reason, of course.
The secret to it all is to remember that it's really not that hard. I panic about deadlines and whether the words will ever come, but eventually they always do. I remain convinced that anyone can do my job, but I'm told that I have a natural ability for it. Best of all, it pays well. I may not get the megabucks that those I write for pull down, but I know writers and I don't know many of them out there in the real world who manage to make a steady living. And that's why I remain comfortably nestled against the corporate teat.
My job takes me away from home regularly, for weeks at a time, and during those periods I'm invariably holed up in a hotel room in the evenings writing scripts, speeches, memos and newsletters. It sounds glamorous; I've stayed in the best hotels in cities all around the world, but generally that's about as much as I see of those far-flung places; a hotel room and a conference suite. So, inevitably, I resort to my trusted companions - whisky and cigarettes. As muses go, they're not the healthiest, I'll admit.
So, while the location's the exact opposite to the usual, the situation's the same. I'm holed up at home writing a series of speeches and presentations and by the evening I'm so fried that all I want to do is crash out on the sofa, watch a movie and shut my mind off. I know of nothing more pleasurable to achieve that than a good single malt. And because it's what I've always done, I reach for a cigarette to go with it.
I waved goodbye to the family on Monday morning and within 10 minutes I was at the local newsagent stocking up on cigs. Without anyone around to impress with my steely willpower I instantly relapsed, largely I suppose because I knew I could and would probably get away with it. A short-sighted and cynical viewpoint, but I know enough smokers and ex-smokers and ex-ex-smokers to know that it's a pretty common scenario.
I'm bloody ashamed of myself, though. Giving up was easy and maybe that's the problem - I've managed to convince myself yet again that I can do it whenever I want to. Just not today.
Original source: http://junkshed.wordpress.com/?p=81
