Almost three weeks into my new, nicotine-free life and I’m in a taxi – or maybe it’s a tram. I’m with a friend, though I’m not sure who. I pull a pack of cigarettes from my pocket and light one up. After two deep drags, I stub it out. My mysterious companion asks how it feels, to which I reply: “Tastes disgusting.”
After 19 days without a smoke I feel pretty lousy about this relapse – until I awaken with a surge of relief at the realisation that it’s just a dream; a potent fusion of psychology and neurochemistry playing games with my vulnerable mind.