For fuck's sake, I had a whole load written here and I must have pressed some weird key because it's all gone. First day of second attempt to stop smoking. Not bad. A few little sensations, of the nicotine flexing its muscles, but nothing much. I think it probably kicks in later with me - having been a teacher all those years, I was used to going for a long time without a smoke - on days when I had to do break duty I'd have a smoke at 8 am then one at 12.50 and another at 4.30, without any kind of withdrawal. I've had quite a few supportive emails and messages today from people who used to smoke, many of whom tell me how it will be - all saying different things. It's weird shit, nicotine. Other addictions (from what I can gather) have quite a strict development of withdrawal symptoms, on the first day it's the shakes, day 2 the vomits, day 3 you'd sell your soul, day 4 a bit achy, day 5 and you're out the other side with just a long endless day to get through with no drugs/booze, and another to follow and another...

So on the way back from acupuncture I went into the big Boots in the city centre for my appointment with one of the 'beauty therapists' to put some make up on me, to see what I look like, whether if I'd feel perked up by not looking so old and knackered. Ha. I looked exactly as old and knackered (and wrinkly), but now with sticky shite all over my face, all blanded out. I looked like everyone else who hides behind that mask of paint. Honestly, what a fucking palaver. I thought she'd slap on a bit of foundation, maybe some blusher, eyes, lippy, there you are, thank you very much madam, here's your coat, now fuck off with your feminism.

Instead she kept wittering on about 'beauty routines', of which the first layer has to be 'serum' to enable the next layer, moisturiser, to do something or other. Bed down? Go off? Settle in? Then you could start building up... but I drifted off then, as it was already apparent that I can't be arsed, I don't care, I don't give a flying fuck that I have great droopy bags under my eyes, they're my bags under my eyes and if you don't like them then goodbye, I'll manage without you somehow, I'm sure.

I am a bit ranty this evening - and it's got late again so I'm going to take a sleeping pill - I've done five nights without so I can have one now. This is self-medication in action. No nicotine, a bit of grass, but not skunk, maybe a slug on the bottle of limoncello that lives in the freezer if I remember it's there but I probably won't.