The husband quit smoking on Saturday because of a terrible toothache. He has been smoking since he was a teenager, first Benson & Hedges before switching to rollies a decade ago, thirty a day. Years ago he tried to quit using a prescription drug called Chantix/Champix, which apparently causes hallucinations, mania, and psychosis in a small percentile of users; one day, he imagined, quite calmly, how he'd methodically kill and chop up a certain acquaintance, whereupon he tossed the packet of Champix out the car window. Anyways, once in a while, he will glare at me across a desk or table and growl, "I desperately need a cigarette." But he's still off them and colour has returned to his cheeks. The mother-in-law is delighted; she's been in a marvelously cheerful mood for the past few days. Alas, today he's been a right arsehole, and I am grumpy, and it doesn't help, my period, my scarlet visitor with her tiresome needs, all my clothes too tight and the weather too unsettled for me to find any comfort. Sigh.

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