I'm struggling here. The first week was a fucking doddle. Really. Not a problem. And as you read this, I am, at the B.F.M., half an hour past the two week mark. And I reckon I could have just the one. Yup. Just the one little one. I've earned it. All this commuting by bike, all this running, all this fucking not smoking. Surely I've earned myself just one little cigarette?
But I know, though I'm trying so hard to self-deny, that there is no such bleeding thing. Isn't it supposed to get easier the longer you go?
Again with the rhetorical: has my day been so rough? It may not require it, but I dole it out nonetheless. Yes. Yes, it has. Tesco at eight-thirty, children in tow, then almost instantly to work a spin class where I was certainly not feeling it, strong as I was, and where my relating of a dream of Paula Radcliffe fell as flat as any tale I've ever told. Despite turning away a tide of wannabe participants, despite some fulsome post-class praise, it all just felt a little bit shit. Then Yoga. Snore. Then home and instant employment in the tipless taxi trade, firstly for the Mother in Common Birthday Law and then for the chosen one, her chosen son.
And now, finally, dinner is done and all are gone. Bridge Crew sequestered. Clothes folded, sandwiches made. And all I want is to smoke. Just the one. Oh, just the one. Right now, right this second as I type, I can whiff the sickly sweet smell of Common Law's apparently guiltless, gorgeous habit, wafting. I never noticed, before I stopped, before I started, that the smell drifts, like the hideous chatter of Terry Christian on Celebrity Big Brother, even through a sealed door.
So yes, I feel my day has been rough, though not much rougher than most days. And yes, I believe that I deserve a fucking break. But fortunately, unfortunately, I also believe that the best break I can have is the one which involves me not reaching for that delightfully tubular top shelf, not going outside and feeding my dragon, not hating the taste, hating the failure, hating myself.
Fuck you, dragon cunt, if the waiter can do it, then so can I.
I'm keeping moving on.