Sometimes - rarely, but sometimes - I wish smoked. And sometimes - even more rarely, and quite mystifyingly - I do. I had several drags of Marcus's cigarette on Friday night, and I think I had about half of one on Saturday night too. I'm not sure why - perhaps it's a subconscious ploy to make him feel guilty about smoking. To give him credit, he did try giving up just after we started going out.

There are a few benefits to smoking:

Smokers have a valid reason for taking a five-minute break from work every hour.

They get to know people from other departments and floors as they cluster outside the building.

They get to hear all the gossip.

They have a ready-made excuse for talking to fanciable strangers in bars in clubs: "you got a light, mate?"

But then I hear my boyfriend coughing his lungs up first thing in the morning and I remember why I don't smoke.