I am alone in the house at the moment. I am actually alone in my street, perhaps even my suburb.

I woke up this morning to a frenzied commotion outside. People packing their cars, hammering in “FOR SALE” signs in their yards, and heading for the hills screaming and yelling as they reversed, screeching, out of their garages, leaving nothing but tumbleweeds drifting down our avenue.

You would think that perhaps Godzilla had decided to pay the place a visit, or a Tsunami was imminent, but I have a sneaking suspicion that this hasty exodus of my husband and neighbors is possibly due to the fact, that I may have casually mentioned to them over drinks at a BBQ last night, that I was considering giving up smoking this week.

                                                                                 

The silence that followed was almost tangible.

“You are going to do…what????”

Everyone stood frozen in silence. I could see their eyes furtively moving from side to side as each person digested this little bit of information.

“Sure” I shrugged and popped another party pie into my mouth. “It’s about time, and I really think I am ready up here” I said tapping my head.

“Ummm…well. . err…that’s GOOD Kyles. Good…for…you…”

One by one they sidled carefully around me, backs to the wall, tugging on each others sleeves urgently, and mopping the perspiration of their brows, as they all hastily departed the premises.

I turned to the man of the manor, who was trying to scramble out of the kitchen window, “Well, they left in a hurry, did you microwave the dims sims properly?”

Now, I tend to think everyone has just had a teeny weeny overreaction to this bit of news.

I have tried to quit the dreaded darts many times. It’s a terrible habit, and I am acutely aware that, should I continue, I could very well end up with a variety of nasty conditions if the pictures on the packs are to be believed.

Heart disease, gangrene, blindness, all very graphic. Mind you, the latest one depicting Linda Blair, complete with spinning head and projectile vomit, is taking things just a little  bit too far!                                       

So, yes, I do think that giving the cigs away, can only be a very positive thing.

Having said that, it’s bloody hard. I have tried pretty much everything on offer. Hypnosis was the first miracle cure I subscribed to. It was a most interesting exercise. The hypnotist, a small, hunchbacked man, who could very well have been Yoda’s first cousin, told me to lie down and close my eyes. He then instructed me to think of waterfalls, cute little bunnies, rainbows, beaches…lots… and lots… of beaches.

At the end of the session, I walked out, not only with an overwhelming urge for a smoke, but also the added craving to go and watch a film with Better Midler and Barbra Hershey.

Next on the list of options were the “Patches”.

All the advertising was very encouraging indeed. A black and white picture of a young woman in her late twenties is shown sitting in a bare room. She is coughing heavily and her hands are shaking as she drags on a cigarette. She looks up at the camera, with tears in her eyes and talks about how miserable her life is, how smoking has taken away all the things she used to love. What can she do? How can someone help???

Cut to the next frame – in vibrant colour with a chirpy Neil Sedaka track playing in the background. The same young woman is now surrounded by virile young men, playing beach volleyball in a string bikini. She turns to the camera and gushes “Thank you THANK YOU Sir PatchALot. I have given up smoking and now I am a SHOO in to get laid tonight!”.

Well….

That was enough for me. I raced out to the chemist and bought several boxes, full of determination to give the nicotine away, and perhaps even get some action at the same time.

I realized very quickly, that it wasn’t quite the “quick-fix” the Marketing people at “Sir PatchALot” wanted you to believe.

A little thing called “willpower” is also required, and since I have next to none of that, the entire mission was aborted the first time someone offered me a glass of Sauv Blanc…. . 6 hours later

(Oh, and just a side note for the single ladies- if you are planning on the “Sir PatchALot” regime, using the entire box of patches in one hit doesn’t work, and try to refrain from putting them on your cheeks and forehead. You will not quit smoking, and your chances of scoring with virile young men will be dramatically diminished…. trust me on this one).

There was only one thing left in the magic bag: Quitting Cold Turkey

I won’t go on too much about how this method went, only that I was completely cigarette-free for 4 weeks.

My success would have lasted longer, but there were a few side-effects:

*Unstoppable cravings for …. everything in the fridge - even if it was 7 weeks old, used to resemble a potato but now looked very much like Sarah Palin’s head.

*Randomly tossing pieces of furniture over the balcony (There is still a Weber BBQ lying upside down in our back yard. Surprisingly, it survived the fall very well, considering I was aiming for my husband)

*My vocabulary, normally quite expansive, was reduced to “BITE ME!!”

It was only when I started to say thing like “Well, ok, Donald Rumsfeld might have been a bit off on that Iraq thing, but I am sure he did it with the best intentions” that my husband sent out a distress signal to our family and friends.

And those friends heeded the call…. .

They came in cars. They came in buses. They walked, they cycled, they skipped (well, my gay friends did anyway) to my door with Benson and Hedges, Peter Jackson, Malboros,Camel, Winnie Blues, Reds and Greens by the carton, thus ending my month long nicotine abstinence and saving me from turning into a rabid, BBQ-Tossing Republican.

So, I guess my husband and my friend’s decision to move to Coober Pedy at the mention of me trying to quit smoking again wasn’t so unreasonable.

I will give up, one of these days, but I might wait until Bush and his cronies take their final bow.