For many, many, years Alfred Dunhill has been my best friend. His lovely flat packs of Dunhill International fags have fitted into my handbags, neither distorting or disfiguring the shape of my bags.
Two years ago I thought enough is enough, I’m giving up smoking before it gives me up and so I undertook a hypnotism session with my very good friend, Ruthy Baker. It worked – I never thought in a million years I would ‘go under’. Smoking around twenty fags a day, after the session I did not smoke for three whole days. I didn’t want one and never had any withdrawal symptoms until the Thursday, day four.
I experienced wicked acid reflux to such a point of it being so painful, I tried a fag to see if it would get rid of the acid. I really honestly did not want it and it was foul. Smoking it was disgusting and it did not get rid of the acid.
On the Friday I was demonic and needed and craved that devil nicotine, which is the addiction bit. I needed it, had to have it and resorted to using nicotine patches, which helped the craving.
Knowing now what I did not know then, was that one fag had fed the nicotine devil and intensified the craving that was not there following my hypnotherapy.
Moving on, I got the habit down to two a day, which was when I consulted my Doctor for help in really kicking the habit. She prescribed a course of Champix, warning that the side effects can include depression and suicidal thoughts, disturbed sleep, wickedly realistic dreams and sickness. I did not experience any of these side effects whatsoever and stopped smoking completely within couple of weeks.
On this drug, the Doctor’s surgery monitors you every two weeks, and after two weeks at my check up, I was smoke free, had lost weight and had experienced no side effects. Result!
Two weeks further along, I was sneaking the odd puff, but it tasted foul but I think it was the rebel in me that kept me having the odd one.
Six weeks in, and yes, the odd one had grown to the odd two or three, not good, I know.
Then, although I was eating healthily. watching my weight and exercising regularly, my boobs started to grow. They were like triffids, every time you looked down they were bigger – they got so big I had to go to Rigby & Pellar in London for a bra fitting. ‘F’ cup from a ‘C’ They were ginormous. Girls, forget a boob job, get on the Champix.
Eight weeks on, I went on holiday to my friend’s villa in Cyprus. By this time, not only had the boobs grown, the backside was following. We were walking along one evening, the only things I could wear were what we called tents – very loose fitting dresses, but I became aware of something following me – I exclaimed, “Ahh what’s that? It was my arse!!”.
My friend, also on Champix, revealed over a few gins that she also had grown enormous boobies – bigger than when she was pregnant.
Some research revealed that Champix was some type of steroid, although you have to dig deep to find the references. I would never have taken it had I known this. Further research further revealed that the vivid dreams people experienced were very raunchy.
I stopped taking it immediately, as I would rather smoke than get fat.
When I went back to the surgery to let them know my findings, the nurse laughed about the big boobies, I told her to prescribe Champix and save the NHS fortunes giving people boob jobs, then I told her that as I was very disappointed I had not had any raunchy dreams and didn’t even get a sniff of a visit from George Clooney, I wanted my money back!
Yes, I am still puffing the odd one here and there – One day, I will beat you Alfred.
This is my story for which I have tried to make the reading of, fun, but seriously, this is one of the most difficult things I have ever tried to do, good luck if you are trying.