It’s 7.02 p.m. and I’m standing outside my house by the bins smoking a fag. Upstairs, I can hear that my six-year-old is awake but I’m choosing to ignore her. How repellent, I hear you murmur. And it is repellent, in many ways. I am a smoker and a mother, hardly the Madonna and child. How can these two realities ever be reconciled? They jam against each other all day long, uncomfortably.
Smoking is bloody great. If you’re a smoker that is. Otherwise it’s just disgusting
It’s OK, I tell myself, every single day. I never smoke in front of them. Instead, I smoke when they’re in bed, when the day is done, and the bedroom doors are firmly shut. Often, I smoke during the day too. This is harder to conceal but I’ve got quite good at it: an episode of Alvin here, a nap there; I take my chances stealthily, silently.
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