I've given up smoking a thousand times; it's easy. No, really, it is, I promise. It's a question of perseverance; I don't mind and they don't matter. That's what they say, isn't it? In the past, I stopped smoking for days, and often as long as a week. When we were young, there was no reason to cease. Besides, after years of dedication, it was easier to continue than to quit.
When Virginia died, I was bereft. She made me promise to quit when I was by her bedside. I visited her in hospital and she had tubes everywhere and an oxygen mask, which she removed from time to time to have a quick puff. She'd insist on me pushing her wheelchair outside for a breath of fresh air. Once we were away from the matron's watchful glare, she'd rifle through my pockets, spark up and have a good wheeze and cough. Virginia smoked until the last few hours of her life. She was ever faithful to the pleasure that killed her. We'd had fifty years of marriage, golden years and many, many happy times and no regrets.