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To me, there’s something spontaneous and naughty about ‘sparking up’ a fag. The attitude of ‘who wants to live forever’ mingles with the sensual dirtiness of fumes on the tongue. But there’s always a more mundane reason for doing something filthy to yourself. Mine is the most obvious of all addictions, both physiological and psychological. Even now, at five months pregnant, the urge to buy Marlboro Lights still grips me whenever I enter Soho. Like a teenager longing for acceptance the fag-on-lip look still means popularity deep in my subconscious, in the same way that lisping, ‘Ooh no, I don’t smoke,’ evokes pictures of drippy girls in Laura Ashley frocks and WI matrons.
When friends smoke now I can barely resist the urge to grab the fag from their lips and inhale it all in one long, luscious drag. The only way I succeed is by picturing myself stuffing lit cigarettes into a new-born baby’s mouth, then holding its nose so it has to breath the entire carcinogenic content into its tiny, developing lungs. That’s how strong bloody nicotine works as a drug.
Will I sneak the occasional cigarette once the baby’s born? Probably, but at 33, I now have boundaries that restrict the self-destructive instincts I’ve inherited along with my bolshy attitude. These are to avoid the grim reaper where possible and, never, ever get caught by the police (or press) being naughty in the West End.
Lauren Booth, Broadcaster
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