Actually: I'm lying. I love gloating. It's one of the things I always told myself I would do when I was old enough not to be smacked by my mum for it. "Holly Miranda Smale," she would snap at me when I was wiggling my bottom in the air and shouting a number of nahnahs in a row. "We do not have that kind of smugness in this house, young lady. Now get back in your box and stay there." (Okay, I'm lying about the box too: I had a bed, like normal children. I simply enjoy winding my mum up on this blog, as most of you should know by now. I get daily phone calls from her, demanding that I "clear her name," and it only makes me even more badly behaved. I'm sorely tempted to tell the world she can't cook either, but I won't or she'll turn my laundry pink again.)
So I'm going to wiggle my bottom as much as I like on this one, and mum: you can't stop me. Because... I've stopped smoking. I've actually, literally, properly stopped smoking. At first it was a blip - I thought I'd get over it - and then it was just a bad habit: the desire not to light up after a long day. But now it's been three weeks, and all I've had is two half-ciggies when drunk, and I didn't like them much (Hel, if you're reading this: I know they were yours, and I'm sorry. I did my best to enjoy them, I really did). I tried my very best to keep going, but - just like that - I woke up one morning and I didn't want to anymore. And, three weeks later, I don't think I'm going to again. Just like that.
So you can stick your nicotine patches and your gum and the electronic ciggies that taste of stale kebab. Unless you've got a sheesha on the go, I'm just not interested anymore. And it wasn't hard at all. No withdrawals, no cravings and no sucking on the end of a pen until my bottom lip went blue. Aha. Ahaha. So, mummy dearest, stick that in your pipe and smoke it. Nah nah ne nah nah.
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