Pass the Narna on the Left Hand Side.

I have been keeping a secret from you since starting this blog.

There is something I haven’t told you.

I feel dirty, sly and guilty about it nearly every day.

I have nearly come out and told you on a fair few occasions, but so ashamed am I about this nasty little pipit of sordid information that I have always glazed over it with crème Brule like glitter.

*I had a Crème Brule flavoured Krispy Kreme last night and I can’t stop thinking about it. I apologise now for the Crème Brule theme that will, without doubt run through the entirety of this post, because Jaysus that was one life affirming donut, I tell thee.

‘How a donut changed my life’ coming to a book store near you soon! Written by Fatty McWoo and edited by her seven dwarfs. (I don’t know why I have given myself seven dwarfs here, but go with it, they can help me clean and mop up poo, and if you need one I can lend you one too. But not dopey, cos he is my favourite, you can have grumpy; he’s a bit of a git to be honest…*

Anyway moving on;

I feel like I have effortlessly and at speed unveiled parts of myself in an overzealous flourish of flab and therapy, but hidden from you, a dark and vicious little secret, of which I am really not proud.

That isn’t to say I am proud of being 3 stone overweight, (who could be proud of themselves for finishing a supersize MacDonald’s milkshake for god’s sake………ahem, those things are massive!! Damn right I am proud! She says rubbing her gut and sighing orgasmically at the thought of a mahoosive chocolate bath sized drink of heaven, before remembering she is sat in Starbucks writing this and not in the privacy of her own home…)

That isn’t to say I am proud of the fact I struggled to bond with my son, while the midwife sowed thirteen stitches in to my rectum (Seriously, can you blame me?… Aww look at my newborn oof son! Isn’t he beautiful oof! His eyes are oof! blue….I have been waiting with baited breath for somebody to call me an arsehole post labour, but unfortunately nobody has (not to my face anyway) which is a shame……I should probably explain why…... Because the minute they do I fully intend on dropping my kecks, bending over and showing them an actual arsehole. What? It would serve them right, and in truth, come on! I had 13 stitches and I didn’t even get to show off my war wound! Where is the justice??)

That isn’t to say I am proud of the fact my relationship has hit rock bottom numerous times since Addison was born and that Doodle sometimes climbs in to bed with me at night for a cuddle, and that doesn’t actually mean I am proud that I prefer that to the possibility of sex… (I mean sex with the Irish One, not Doodle…..I mean I prefer a cuddle off Doodle to the idea of sex….Can we move on now please, before I get loads of weird ‘hot mummy likes doggy style’ type searches on Google? Doodle is my friend and I love him. We cuddle. He is a cuddly dog. I love him, but I don’t lurve him. Im moving on now. You weirdo’s. Goodbye. I’ve gone. Are you coming or not?)

But the difference with all of the admissions above which are true and have often been spoken about (except that bit bordering on bestiality, but that was you not me) not only is this hidden secret not something I am proud of, this secret is something I regret, something I am ashamed of and something I really do NOT want to share.

But unfortunately it is part of me, and I am getting a bit sick of feeling like a teenager hiding a £45 rabbit shaped purchase from Ann Summers under her bed from her parents (…never happened…) so before one of you wily minx’s (wily not willy. God you lot are obsessed!) grabs a torch and starts delving under my inner sanctuary of dust, old odd shoes and a quivering poodle hiding from a 1 year old and a dozing Irish man (all things you are likely to find under my bed at any given time) I will come clean.

*but let me just distract you for a moment here with a mouth wateringly good, creamy, rich, chocolate donut shaped delay tactic….mmmmmm creammmmy weammmy donnnutttttt…nope? You not falling for it? You want to know? Damn it. OK. Here goes…*

Let me transport you to back when through a foggy veil of nostalgia and 2unlimited singing no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no there’s no limits (lyrical genius), to 1996. (Please keep hands inside your carriage at all times…..ahem.) Imagine yourself if you can, like an invisible visitor to the south coast of Spain’s Aloha college Disco. You are the age you are now (you are old, so make sure you get your judgemental parent face ready ok?) and you have all at once, found yourself crammed in to a putrid smelling school bathroom with 4 far too scantily clad and annoyingly giggily teenage girls, who all seem to be huddled around a cubicle, excitedly and guiltily looking down at their friends’ hand and egging each other on about something.  Outside the cramped and airless bathroom the dulcet tones of 2unlimited changes to the classic hit ‘Jump’ by Kriss Kross and you can hear hundreds, maybe thousands of teenagers begin to jump up and down and start putting their pants on backwards.

You try to get your head around one of the over hair sprayed youth’s shoulders to see what they are up to; (no good can come of this, you think to yourself. No good! Someone is going to get hurt! This wouldn’t happen under my roof! What are the teachers doing? Why aren’t they in here?) But due to the amount of perfume these girls are soaked in, you are unable to get close enough to see, before your totally un-cool, invisible futuristic asthma starts flaring up and you nearly end up collapsing in an invisible futuristic heap on the floor, gagging and convulsing on a cloud of potent Anais Anais mixed with The body shop’s white musk.

‘Oh for god’s sake what are you all scared of?’ the obvious and self assured leader of the pack stands up, her tiny skirt barely covering her ample thunder thighs as she walks towards the mirror looking back at her compadres behind her in the reflection and giving herself a secret smile before throwing her blonde hair off her shoulder in one over confident flick. ‘It is just a cigarette for god sake! It’s totally cool, it is totally big and it is really clever. Let’s just get on with it! I don’t want to be the only girl in lower sixth who hasn’t smoked!’

With that, the other three girls jump up and start pulling stashed cigarettes from inside their bra cups and lighting up…

‘Are we ready for this?’ The cocky, frizzy haired idiot in the huge Dr martins and bodice top asks her mates before pulling the smoke in to her mouth, elevating her chest, so it looks like she is inhaling but actually isn’t (she is too scared to) before still managing to lose her breath and ending up coughing and spluttering the remains of her lungs out in to the sink.

‘Yes!’ they all chant back in glee as the ring leader vomits in to her mouth. ‘You look so cool!’

And there you have it. Before, old and wrinkly, futuristic you, can even think to scream invisible, futuristic  and boring warnings about Lung cancer and emphysema and other totally un-cool life threatening diseases, my smoking career had begun.

*With admittedly a hell of a lot of coughing and spluttering and vomiting at the start. And yes although I do feel quite bad that on that I day I may have inadvertently influenced a group of strong confident women (all dressed in fish net tights) who didn’t need to smoke, to go ahead and have a ciggie,  I can also totally forgive myself for it pretty easily actually, as those bitches never once told me throughout the entirety of that fateful evening  that the tell tale gusset of my bloody bodice was hanging down the back of my arse like a v shaped, and very embarrassing tail. OH No, they didn’t say a word. They let me walk out of that toilet and let Hubert (yes Hubert) the school God, ask me why my top was also my knickers, and why it was hanging down my back. It was mortifying.

(But not as mortifying as a year later, when I was caught by a teacher behind those very same toilets, very definitely getting up to no good with the very same Hubert wearing the very same bodice and in a very similar state of undress. Social Suicide in the 90’s with Hubert the school god. Bloody Hubert. I’d rather have a donut any day.)

So there you have it. My most horrific and shameful Mammy woo secret, out in the open. (And if you believe that… did you not just read what I was getting up to with Hubert? I had no shame for a LONG time! But anyway…)

I am a smoker.

I mean, I was a smoker.

I mean, I am a smoker who is trying to become was a smoker.

Dear Diary.
It has been 21 days since my last cigarette and I am ready to kill someone. (I am sure can all guess who, his name isn’t Paddy but it could be.)

Dear Diary.
People have suggested every time I have a craving for a cigarette that I try a banana instead, but that isn’t going to plan. No sooner have I lit up than the room transforms in to a Caribbean cook out and Addison starts singing ‘no woman no cry’ to me in the background with a comb magically stuck upright out of the top of his white boy ‘fro’, so that idea hasn’t worked out very well. Plus I feel like a dick smoking a banana.

Dear Diary.
This time it is for good. I am never smoking again. I may lynch somebody. But I am never smoking again. Ever. Never. Ever. No siree. No cigarettes for me. Nope. Not one. Ever.

What you don’t believe me?

It is ok. As a reformed smoker (ahem) I wouldn’t believe me either, and I am sure you will fall down flat on your faces in shock to hear that this ISN’T the first time I have quit. (I know, I know. Amazing huh? A smoker who says they have quit and then gets caught six days later red handed (and yellow nailed) with a fag in their hand, and a million reasons why this isn’t the right time to quit. Shocker.)

But this time you can trust me. Honest.

I have quit. This is the right time.

Do you want to know why or do you just want to see a picture of me smoking a banana?

Well either way, I feel I should first tell you that when I found out I was pregnant with Addison, I did smoke. Yup. I knew I was pregnant and I smoked. But wait, before you slam your laptop down and label me a heathen…

I smoked ONE cigarette to help me get over the shock ( I mean delight) at being caught out up the duff with an Irish boy I had only known 7 months, and then immediately retired my lighter and Marlboro lights (I know, I am so last season) for the entirety of my pregnancy. It wasn’t a hard decision.

I was 5 weeks pregnant. I was having a baby. I had a belly full of innocent arms and innocent legs and innocent lungs.

There was no way I was smoking.

And besides, every time I wanted a fag, I could eat! Result! This may or may not be the reason why I easily and without effort put 5 stone on during my pregnancy. Apparently you burn 20 calories every time you smoke a cigarette (40 for a banana) but let me tell you, you put 210 calories on for every replacement Drifter you eat.

The end result is obviously producing a baby that hasn’t been infected by nicotine and tar, but a post natal body that could apply for its own postcode. FA7 C0W.

So I assume that you are now thinking ‘IDIOT!’ of me again. It is ok, you can admit to thinking that back in the past too. Although what the hell were you wearing in 1996?? My bodice may have been flapping about in the breeze but I saw you. Camouflage combat pants, neon bracelets and a tank top, seriously? Who did you think you were? Alicia Silverstone? What-ever!

So, why did I spark up again after Addison was born? Because I am an idiot that is why. A bona-fide idiot.  But you knew that already. (MMMM Crème Brule…)

In my defence I didn’t know who I was anymore. I had a new body, a new title, a new baby, a newly refurbed and extended Vagina with a complimentary conservatory on the back and a gut the size of Texas. If you had seen what I had seen in the full length sado-mirror on the post natal ward that morning of the 5th of April 2010, you would have been sparking up a cigarette too. (Ok, maybe not, but just go with me.)

Let’s come back down to earth a little here ok? It isn’t like I’m on crack. It isn’t like I’m addicted to methadone (although there have been some long nights where I probably wouldn’t have said no…) and it isn’t like I’m a down and out crack whore who sleeps all day (please refer to previous comment.) I never smoked in the house, I never smoked and then picked up the baby and I never pureed a banana I had toked on. (…No man!!)

So I am a smoker! So what?*

I will tell you what.

I had a dream and it wasn’t the martin Luther king kind of dream.

It wasn’t inspirational or moving, but it was bloody memorable.

I shit my pants and I haven’t smoked a cigarette since.

That was 21 days ago.*

Addison Jake D. Ellis, I promise you, that as long as I live, I will never smoke another cigarette again as long as I shall live and I hope that is a long time**and I do this for you.

Mammy wants to give herself a chance of seeing you make the mistakes mammy made. (Although not the ones mentioned in this post. Stay away from Hubert’s daughter.)

I made you from scratch so I may as well enjoy seeing you grow up, with a little less worry of being struck down with a self inflicted illness.

Maybe my dream will still come true. Maybe 15 years of smoking has already done irreparable damage but as cheesy as this sounds, If it has, and I do join the big Kahuna (my brother) in the sky because of a smoking related illness, I want my son to know that I gave up for him, long before I was diagnosed. I want him to know that I gave myself a chance.

*I do not judge anybody who smokes. How could I? This isn’t the point of this post. This is simply my experience of donuts and the impact they can have on your life.*

I have given up so many times, but thinking of missing out on Addison’s life means that this time I know I won’t go back. (If you see me behind the bike sheds next week then please knock before you walk around the corner, because the no good I will be getting up to won’t be nicotine influenced…….(and Doodle wont be there either! gross! There is something wrong with you lot.)

#OperationSkinnybint has now been replaced with #OperationSkinnyAngryIrritableBint…FromHell.

Has anyone got a drifter? I need a drifter.  GET ME A SODDING DRIFTER.

*21 days isn’t that long I know. At what point can I say was a smoker then?

** I may, however swear a little more. And stomp. You will definitely see more stomping.


7 Comments on “Pass the Narna on the Left Hand Side.

  1. I’m proud too! Keep it up. Apparently it takes 21 days to break or form a habit so according to the prick who said that-youve done it! Ps creme brûlée donuts-frickin’ he’ll-get me one in pls for Thursday!!

  2. No judgement here, I still love you girl. Good for you for quitting. I smoked when I was a teenager which was really stupid since I have asthma but I wasn’t officially diagnosed until later.

    It seemed like once I stopped (I did have some slip ups) EVERYONE smoked and I would always think ahhhhh!!!! noooooo! It’s like other people were torturing me on purpose. 😉

    And now I will have thoughts of creme brulee donuts the rest of the day.

  3. Well done. As soon as you’ve smoked your last cigarette you can say you are a ‘non-smoker’.
    As someone who grew up with smoking parents (although my mum has not smoked for 6years now) I can tell you that you are doing Addison the biggest favour.
    He is now statistically less likely to smoke himself in the future.
    Maybe put the money you would spend on the cancer sticks aside & treat yourself to some pampering when you get to 50 days fag free?!
    Proud of you 🙂

  4. Mmmmm Creme Brulee……….
    Sorry. What where you saying? Smoking? Ah, right…….No judgement here hun, well done on 21 days! Yay!

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