When I was younger, my friends used to joke that I would be the first person they knew to die of lung cancer, with such fervour did I smoke.
It wasn't so funny when some 10 years later I was still inhaling Marlboro Reds as though my life depended on it.
That was me: Marlboro Reds, Camel Filters, Lucky Strikes. The strongest cigarettes on the market, all day, every day. None of this half-hearted Dunhill Blue "I only smoke at parties" carry-on. I was dedicated.
It's impossible to explain why I felt compelled to smoke so much, or how I justified it to myself. I'd read the warnings and seen the images of gangrenous toes and emphysemic men spluttering their way to an early grave. I suppose, like many other heavy smokers, I just became very good at ignoring the blindingly obvious: if I keep this up there's a good chance I will die before my time. It hasn't been until writing this that I have tried to work out how much cigarettes have cost me over the years. My conservative estimate is, to my utter dismay, somewhere in the region of $30,000.
Of course I enjoyed smoking. I got immense satisfaction from that first cigarette in the morning and from that 5pm smoke as I left the office after a hard day. But it got to the point where the length of time between cigarettes was sometimes so short it gave me no pleasure. It satisfied some powerful subconscious craving.
