In the end, I survived nine days without fags; nine derelict lunchtimes in a fag free world. It was a terrible experience, although, as I promised, I did learn to knit. I began a mohair turquoise flak-jacket, with Leon Trotsky's face embroidered on the front. (Minus the ice pick that killed him; it was too fiddly).

The worst part of quitting was the amount of saliva I produced. I almost drowned in it. The whole of my being seemed to sit on my tongue. I was reduced to a mouth; just a mouth and a tongue, with a large mammal attached to it. Usually I have at least a finger as well. When the mouth that was me could sit up, it knitted Trotsky, ate biscuits and watched the Exorcist 3, a film about exploding Catholic priests. When it couldn't it dreamt; of self-help books and patches and nicotine-themed sex.

The inevitable relapse was dramatic; one act; two parts, both played by me. "What do you want, Tanya?" I asked myself, as a priest lay dying on the television after an ineffective exorcism. "I want a cigarette," I said. (The priest dropped his bible. He screamed. His head fell off). "I want to smoke. All I want to do is smoke." "Why don't you, then?" I asked. "There is a packet of Silk Cut on the table in the conservatory." The saliva swelled again and I answered (anything to stop the saliva): "Yes. Yes. Yes".

I sprinted to my darling little Silk Cuts. I wanted to eat them with a fork. Instead, I lit the smiling tube and sucked. Poisons tangoed in my lungs and I gasped, "I love you. I miss you. I want you." I was outrageously high. It was marvellous. I did star-jumps in my pyjamas and giggled in a frightening manner. Then I fell to earth. I was no longer a non-smoker. I was smoking. I loved smoking. I had failed.

Nothing would comfort me, not even my mother singing "Everybody is Jewish When You're in Love". My sister rode to the rescue; she has discovered a website for quitters called Quitnet. "It has a chatroom," she said, "so you can go to a support group but you don't have to smell them." I am thinking about Quitnet and smoking and knitting. The needles bite my fingers but I don't mind. My Trotsky now has half a face.