I've never been a smoker, not really sure why though. My dad smoked when I was influenceable. My friends and girlfriends smoked. We all partied and drank and hung out with nefarious types. I smoked a cigarette in first year university and threw up several times. I say 7 times. There's no-one around to contradict me. Believe it.Then probably in 1994, I smoked another cigarette with M*. He didn't stop me. We'd been wandering around the neighbourhood feeling a little silly all night. I was silly enough to smoke that cigarette. In one big go. I inhaled and inhaled and inhaled and walked and walked and inhaled. Then threw up 11 distinct, validated (but thankfully not video-taped) times. I still remember how awful I felt. M* came into the room and tried to reassure me that I wouldn't die. I was mad at him because his soothing, yet booming voice caused me to vomit again. I think he still smarts from the accusation. My wife said recently that she'd like to start smoking. "It just seems cool". Cool? Try vomiting 11 times in a row. That's so uncool - people look at you like there's something wrong with you. Cigarettes are an emetic to me.
It seems that my father was intending to call me Mungo as a newborn. That's a Scottish name. The "dear one". I say it's the name of a chimp. I've always said that. Mungo was a saint, "...also known by the less familiar name Kentigern" - what are you kidding me, Mungo is even slightly familiar?...
Conveniently this evening, I've found an endearing way to draw these two elements together. (I'm beginning to notice that these blog entries are more fun when I tie unrelated bits and pieces together, like in Connections) But the good news is that they've helped this chimp quit the habit. Had he vomited explosively many times like I had, he'd never had kept it up.
Explosively. I like that.