Patch my bitch up

Have successfully made it through two whole days without smoking. Well, I will have once I make it to bed without running, screaming, from the flat in my slippers to claw at the fag display in the local off licence. All going as expected so far - the patches are doing their job in removing the irrational cravings of withdrawal, leaving me to focus solely on the habitual aspect. Which, for someone who smoked as a means of breaking my day into manageable chunks, is proving a little difficult. I find myself coping completely fine - not even thinking about fags for large chunks of the day. But come 10.30am, lunchtime, 3.30pm, 5.30pm and after dinner the sudden urge to have a fag comes rushing back. It's not so much a desperate need for one - more that I start to get up out of my chair in the office, or look towards the living room window, before remembering that I'm trying not to smoke and feeling a little bit deflated inside.

I get over it reasonably quickly - probably in about the time it would take me to smoke the bloody thing - and am consoling myself with thoughts of just how bloody healthy and rich and attractive I'm going to be in the long run. I also know that in time the habits will dissipate and I won't even think about it anymore; it's a comfort to realise that and gives me the will to carry on. Sod it for a game of soldiers if I'm going to spend the rest of my life daydreaming about the good old days when I was able to lie in the park with a Regal king size.

So, all on track, although as J reminded me tonight, it has obviously only been two days. I passed the test of some pints tonight with no real problem, but the very fact I'm writing this in praise of myself after less than 48 hours shows that it has been a bit of a struggle. Onwards and upwards etc. Two days without is better than none. And apparently some of my workmates have a bet on when I'll quit. So tomorrow's not an option.