I’ve just quit smoking. Now, I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking, “mike, wow, best person ever.” And yep, bang on, but that’s not what we are here to discuss today.
I’ve smoked since I was 14. I’m now a month off 29.
I’d always seen a sense of smell as some kind of inherited weakness a real man would strive to dissuade his body of, but now that mine is slowly returning, I like it. The last time I actually smelt anything was more than half my lifetime ago.
Thus, I am sat on my couch reading something far too serious for the amount of beer I’ve drunk and suddenly, I’m 12, living in Kuwait, in love with Vanessa Shaw and her blonde pony tail, facing a long, lonely summer holiday in France with my family, willing this youthful innocence to flower and enjoy all that it entailed.
Since then I’ve lived in seven countries, I’ve loved three utterly perfect girls and three guys I wouldn’t be me without. I’ve done nearly a thousand skydives and I’ve drunk more alcohol than Bulgaria produces in a good year. Every scar on this freckled tapestry is the indelible echo of something learned or won.
Still, I can’t help but wonder which of the girls on Facebook I don’t recognise is her.
All from the smell of a book.
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