Whimpering softly...

I turned my face to the sun, whimpering softly with pleasure. Relief blossomed and swelled like some powerful, wicked genie released from its bottle, pervading my whole body. Closing my eyes, I breathed out a deep, long sigh of satisfaction. Wreathed in happy blue haze in the golden glow of late afternoon, I was reckless of the wasps buzzing around me in the pulpy mush of fallen plums and of the water dribbling from the neglected hosepipe and steadily darkening the leather of my dusty sandals. I was heedless, too, to the distant crunching of tyres on the gravel at the side of the cottage, but then I heard a car door slam heavily, and panic struck me like a bolt of lightning.

They were back!!

 To explain: Sandy and my little Genevieve have come down for a couple of days, which is lovely. (Genevieve was named so on the basis that ‘Gen’ or ‘Genny’ sound the same as ‘Jen’ or ‘Jenny’, because Sandy had the kind thought to name her after me, but  ‘Jennifer’ was thought to be embarrassingly dated and ordinary and very much maiden-aunt, like ‘Mildred’ or ‘Gladys’ -  a point, as I think, which Miles helpfully pointed out. Or was it Sandy?

 Lovely as it is to have them both here, it’s also very nice when they pop out for a little while, because then I can relax and have a proper cigarette.

 Yes, I’m afraid I do.

 When we first moved here, I thought I was the only smoker in the village. (Where have I heard that phrase before? It sounds familiar.) I’m not, as I’ve discovered over time, though almost all of the others are either under twenty five and have the bravado of youth and the knowledge that they are going to live forever, or they are men who ostentatiously puff away on pipes or cigars as if to say, these of course, don’t count.  I have tried to stop, of course, because to be honest it is very difficult to be a smoker now, but I won’t bore you with the history of my efforts; suffice it to say that the attempts have been many and varied. After fifty years of smoking, the shock to my system of withdrawal is insufferable. It’s so used to them, my brain goes into complete panic, screaming ‘Help! Help! Do something! We’re dying! Dying! Danger! Danger!’  and I become a tearful zombie wading through treacle and failing to get anything done.

And don’t tell me that it’ll be fine after I’ve done three weeks; I’ve done six months several times and week by week things  just  got incredibly worse.

I’ll take the consequences. It’s not worth it to me. I’m a wimp.

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