Routine

There has to be a routine. It's the only way to make it through.

Back when I smoked, about three months ago, days were structured around cigarettes and reading the Guardian online. A cig before work, mid-morning, lunchtime, mid-afternoon and after work. The carrot, in this case, is the cancer stick - the lighter at the end of the tunnel. Those five cigarettes divided the day up into manageable little chunks, they provided realistic targets to aim for when the thought of long stretch from 13.30 to 17.00 made me feel sick to the very pit of my stomach.

Now all I have to look forwards to is the 11 o'clock banana (which, incidentally, I have just finished) and the postprandial tangerine. Small comforts.

Even if I save the Culture section of the Guardian Online till after lunch, it will only keep me occupied for three quarters of an hour at most.

Enough to make one take up smoking again, almost, but I'm scared of the slow painful death and the fact that a couple of flights of steps now makes me wheeze. I'm only 23.

More nuggets of joy to follow this pm.