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Whilst I would be hard at work at my desk, all single-minded and manic depressive in a cloud of Kafka-esque composition and Murakamian metaphors, the little packet, white and gold like an Imperial Dalek from Doctor Who, would wait patiently in my coat pocket (okay, so not entirely like a wife - certainly not the wife of any man I'd like to be married to) to indulge me in one of my many breaks. One Marlboro Light would punctuate an hour's solid writing, a mini reward or excuse for a change of scene - a chance to step outside my North London flat and stare at Highgate cemetery, thinking about integral concepts such as why someone would want to murder a chicken, and whether it would need longer than a paragraph to adequately explain such motives for as long as my cigarette burns.

And it's related to mood. I'm most likely to smoke when I'm depressed, or angry, or stressed. Or in a pub (when you still could). Or when it's summer. Or with wine or whisky... or, apparently, when I'm breathing in and out, or have two eyes, or am awake it seems.

Now I've stopped, I don't know what will take its place. I'm quite a fidgety person you see. I need something to do with my hands when I talk - something to punctuate each sarcastic witty quip with. Mints? Fruit? Chocolate? Hmmn, chocolate. That could work, but I'd have a horrible feeling I'd end up writing saccharine love stories to keep charity shops in stock shelf fodder. I've already quit drinking coffee. Maybe I should readopt that. I'm in danger of becoming saintly at this rate.

The really stupid part however is that this has nothing to do with good intentions. This has nothing to do with New Year's Resolutions, Lent or good old fashioned Y chromosome male hypochondria about one's health. It's to do with having no money.

Poverty and health has given me the plague.

Learn more about this author, Ben Leto.
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