Living with a WATGUS

For those of you who were concerned after last issue’s T’Ed’s Head (thanks for the flowers by the way, and the self defense manuals and mace spray) life IS actually getting a little easier…..

I've found that living with a WATGUS* (*Wife Attempting To Give Up Smoking) has dropped on the Horrichter Scale from 'BLOOD-CURDLINGLY TERRIFYING' down to 'I'D RATHER CLOSE MY FINGERS IN A SLIDING DOOR', which is a positive omen, you have to admit?

In fact I am happy to report further signs of progress :- our daughter has been brave enough to venture out of her bedroom twice this week, the second time for over a minute, and I've noticed the neighbours on both sides have sent advance parties to investigate the possibility of their moving back home.

So yes. Despite not having a cigarette for six weeks, Mrs Ed is finally calming down. She is even waking up in an only-moderately-grouchy mood…. some mornings. I'm starting to actually believe that I might just come through this alive.

That's not to say that there hasn't been a scary moment or two hundred over the past month.. Especially at night. Really, I'm still having quite a bit of trouble sleeping, because I'm having nightmares….. about the nightmares Mrs Ed is having… about smoking.

Or should I say about NOT smoking?

If I remember correctly (through my befuzzled, sleep-deprived brain) it was during the third night of WATGUS that I woke up thinking something felt exceptionally wrong. This was confirmed when I tried to move my arms and they… just …. wouldn't.. And furthermore, when I opened my eyes I couldn't see a thing. Nix. Nada.

If the truth be told I truly believed that I had somehow been rendered paralysed, and I was just starting to mentally compose a letter of complaint to the makers of a particular brand of box wine, when I smelled the terrible, terrible odour of singed hair. You know the smell I’m talking about?

Of course I leapt to my feet in terror, except I discovered - in even more terror - that my legs wouldn't either.

I don't blame them really, after all they had little choice.

You see, the reason I couldn't move arms nor legs, or see, was that Mrs Ed had rolled me up oh-so-tightly in a white duvet. Worse yet, she was currently busy at either end of the resultant 'me-cylinder', alternating between using a candle to light my hair at the top, and rushing round to the bottom of the bed to puff on my feet. I don't know which was the worse sensation. I don't want to think about it.

Once I had woken her up with my embarrassingly high-pitched, girlish screams, she immediately stopped what she was doing, and launched into a lengthy diatribe about how she had been dreaming of rolling a huge, fat (steady on there) cigarette which would be her ALE (Absolutely Last Ever), which meant it had to be big enough to burn for a very long time.

All I can say is thank goodness for Dr Popper's Natural Crocodile Oil Treatment. It seems that though it allegedly promotes hair growth, improves the elasticity of skin, reduces stretch marks and increases chances of winning the lottery, one thing it isn't is flammable.

I have to admit, even once I had been unrolled I wasn't totally convinced that Mrs Ed's story was authentic. Judging by her recent mood swings I thought it far more likely that she had been preparing to drop me down into the septic tank through the manhole. In fact, at the time, I reasoned that spending a week or two in the basement suite of 'Hotel Septique' might be a far more peaceful option than living on the ground floor with a WATGUS. Sigh.

It's an odd thing, this giving up smoking. Because for Mrs ED it's a total about turn. An all or nothing. Cold turkey. And this is not something I can fully grasp.

You see I've always been a bit of a fence sitter when it comes to the dreaded habit. I'm not like most of the world who believes that anyone who indulges in a bit of baccy should be put on an island and hosed down with iced water, or forced to listen to Barry Manilow tributes until dead, but nor am I someone who appreciates the artistic appeal of an ashtray of freshly crushed stompies next to my breakfast plate.

I think I'm in the middle because, well, I confess I like to have the OCCASIONAL cigarette. You know, in social circles, just to keep other smokers company (they are a rather sad bunch since they have been excommunicated from society, aren't they?) .

But this is taboo when one is living with a WATGUS. They don't, as a rule, understand the concept of 'Social Smoking', or perhaps they are too busy thinking along the lines of Violence and Torture and How To Shout Loudly to give any other thoughts the time of day.

Indeed to proclaim to a WATGUS, or indeed anyone who is trying to kick the habit, that you are a social smoker, that you can have a cigarette anytime you feel like it and then not smoke for another month or two, is sheer lunacy. Especially if they are carrying anything remotely dangerous, like a handbag, or a sharpened lipstick, or a voice.

In fact I've seen a self proclaimed ‘part time rooker' reduced to a quivering, bleeding wreck by an ex-smoker brandishing nothing but a ham sandwich! (Mind you, it did have a lethal dollop of mustard inside).

Whilst I continue on this long and scary journey with Mrs Ed (apparently it takes nine years to totally rid your body of nicotine craving….. AAAAARGHHH!!!) there is something that keeps striking me across the face like a wet sack of stompies:- Whilst we all appreciate the compulsory warnings emblazoned on cigarette boxes which wax unlyrically of slow and painful death should one partake in the habit, why-oh-why is there no equivalent warning about living with someone who is giving up? Surely it makes sense that anyone attempting to stop smoking should have a large DANGER! POTENTIALLY LETHAL TO THOSE WITHIN A 20M RADIUS! stamped across their foreheads?

Indeed, once this thought was in my head, I could think of nothing else, it became an all-consuming idea which made so much sense..

....though in hindsight perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it to Mrs Ed this morning, not when I was standing on the threshold of our sliding door….

But watch this space. I plan to start my campaign by sending an email to the Department of Health…. just as soon as I can move my fingers again.