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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

I was walking up the road, back towards the shops I'd spent the day aimlessly wandering around, because He Who Only... had made the bad decision to leave me unattended for more than 10 minutes and so I felt that amassing some more credit card debt would be a good idea. I did buy those black converse runners I've wanted ever since, now that I think about it, seeing I Robot. The film is rubbish, but the product placement is highly effective. I also bought a copy of a book that I've already got two copies of - it's an earlier edition, and in hardback, and shut up and stop looking at me like that and mind your own business. I also also bought a lot of organic food in the mistaken belief that it's better for me and it's less calories, and also also also some DVDs, don't judge me.

So there I was, walking back up the road and listening to my discman on the off chance that one of the Londoners tried to talk to me, or started singing about sweeping chimneys, and I wouldn't know what to say. And I was walking towards a pub, in which He Who Only... was already sitting snugly by a big fire with some beers already to hand. And it was cold outside and warm indoors by the fire, and the cold was freezing my fashionably shod feet through, and I still took longer to walk there than was strictly necessary because I was dawdling about having a smoke.

Smoking indoors is a habit I have quickly put behind me, much in the same way that I no longer kick puppies or drop babies on their heads. It's just not done anymore, and doesn't occur to me to do until I see someone else do it. I hadn't realised this new habit of mine, it honestly hadn't registered, that every time I step outside to walk somewhere I now check to see if I have four rather than two things: Keys? Check. Wallet? Check. Fags? Check. Lighter? Check. And then off I pop, and rapidly light a fag as I'm going.

And I don't know I'm doing it. That's the terrifying thing. I don't realise it any more. It honestly doesn't register. And the thoughts of smoking anywhere other than outside, anywhere other than the kitchen in Dee's house where we spent hours on end chain smoking and talking about boys, anywhere other than in the freezing cold and often quite rain filled, is just wrong.

Although the moment I remembered I could, I smoked all over the smug Stoke Newington people with their tiny designer labelled children and I laughed and laughed at their coughing, crying, child faces.



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