was fourteen and obviously wanted to be cool – well cooler than I already thought I was. It was school holidays and my folks where both at work. I was home alone and my Mom had left me money to go up to the corner café, a ten minute walk away, and get some lunch. For some reason, and I still don’t know why, I bought a pack of cigarettes instead of a toasted cheese, bacon and onion sandwich and chips. And for some other reason, and I don’t know why again, they allowed a fourteen year old to buy a box of smokes. I was quite short for my age so I certainly didn’t look old enough – maybe they just thought that I was too young to be buying them for myself and that I must have been buying them for someone else. Whatever the reason, I walked home staring at this little square cardboard box of Benson & Hedges (they had the best magazine adverts at the time – never let anyone tell you that advertising doesn’t work).
So I got home, sat on the porch outside, made sure that all the doors and windows on that side of the house were closed, and lit a match. I put the cigarette between my lips and dragged. It was awful. Like I had just stuck my head inside a braai and breathed in the smoke. I stood up to cough but sat back down immediately as the head rush kicked in. The nausea took a few minutes to subside as I sat there watching the cigarette burn down to its end. I chucked the butt over the wall, brushed my teeth over and over again, scrubbed my hands and ate a few pickled onions to try and get rid of the smell. Why the hell was this smoking thing supposed to be so good? And I gave up a great sandwich and ‘slap’ chips for that!
But the next day, sure enough, I soon got bored of TV, kicking a soccer ball against the wall and searching all over for my Dad’s stash of porn magazines that my thoughts turned to that little white box that I had hidden in a pair of old school shoes at the back of my cupboard. I dug them out and tried again. It tasted a bit better the second time around, but the head rush and nausea were still there. But, as the days went on and I had my daily puff, I eventually started to enjoy it, followed by my de-smoking routine of scrubbing, brushing and ridding myself of lingering cigarette smells. Eventually, even though that box lasted me for a good two weeks, I was going out twice a day, even though it was the winter break and it was freezing outside.
Smoking was an awesome habit. A short-lived one but awesome nonetheless. The rush of that first puff, the warm sensation as the smoke filtered down my throat, the relaxed, neutralizing exhale – a huge sigh of pleasure – and the contemplation of life over that five or six minutes of smoking. Thinking about it, it’s a pretty stupid and pointless habit – you take some leaves and paper and a whole lot of stuff that is no good for you, neatly presented in a pencil-thin white and yellow package, light it, suck on it, breathe out smoke and put it out. What a waste. But it’s sooooooooo damn good, and anyone who hasn’t developed the habit will never understand the pleasure it can give you.
I developed my habit over 13 glorious days until my Dad caught me, after which I have only thought now about taking it up again. It was a Wednesday, I remember that clearly because Pugwall’s Summer, a seriously bad Aussie kid’s programme about some dorky looking Australian teens with dodgy hair and an even dodgier rock band, was just about to start and I wanted my second hit of the day before settling in to watch some more mind-numbing holiday television. I went outside onto the porch, double checked that the windows were closed and lit my B&H. I puffed away, enjoying every second and feeling as cool as cool could be (even though not a single soul knew about my newfound habit – all my friends, whose families were all considerably richer, were away on holiday). I checked my watch and saw that it was time for Pugwall and the gang to sing
So I got home, sat on the porch outside, made sure that all the doors and windows on that side of the house were closed, and lit a match. I put the cigarette between my lips and dragged. It was awful. Like I had just stuck my head inside a braai and breathed in the smoke. I stood up to cough but sat back down immediately as the head rush kicked in. The nausea took a few minutes to subside as I sat there watching the cigarette burn down to its end. I chucked the butt over the wall, brushed my teeth over and over again, scrubbed my hands and ate a few pickled onions to try and get rid of the smell. Why the hell was this smoking thing supposed to be so good? And I gave up a great sandwich and ‘slap’ chips for that!
But the next day, sure enough, I soon got bored of TV, kicking a soccer ball against the wall and searching all over for my Dad’s stash of porn magazines that my thoughts turned to that little white box that I had hidden in a pair of old school shoes at the back of my cupboard. I dug them out and tried again. It tasted a bit better the second time around, but the head rush and nausea were still there. But, as the days went on and I had my daily puff, I eventually started to enjoy it, followed by my de-smoking routine of scrubbing, brushing and ridding myself of lingering cigarette smells. Eventually, even though that box lasted me for a good two weeks, I was going out twice a day, even though it was the winter break and it was freezing outside.
Smoking was an awesome habit. A short-lived one but awesome nonetheless. The rush of that first puff, the warm sensation as the smoke filtered down my throat, the relaxed, neutralizing exhale – a huge sigh of pleasure – and the contemplation of life over that five or six minutes of smoking. Thinking about it, it’s a pretty stupid and pointless habit – you take some leaves and paper and a whole lot of stuff that is no good for you, neatly presented in a pencil-thin white and yellow package, light it, suck on it, breathe out smoke and put it out. What a waste. But it’s sooooooooo damn good, and anyone who hasn’t developed the habit will never understand the pleasure it can give you.
I developed my habit over 13 glorious days until my Dad caught me, after which I have only thought now about taking it up again. It was a Wednesday, I remember that clearly because Pugwall’s Summer, a seriously bad Aussie kid’s programme about some dorky looking Australian teens with dodgy hair and an even dodgier rock band, was just about to start and I wanted my second hit of the day before settling in to watch some more mind-numbing holiday television. I went outside onto the porch, double checked that the windows were closed and lit my B&H. I puffed away, enjoying every second and feeling as cool as cool could be (even though not a single soul knew about my newfound habit – all my friends, whose families were all considerably richer, were away on holiday). I checked my watch and saw that it was time for Pugwall and the gang to sing
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