I used to smoke like a fiend while writing.

I couldn't get anything done on any project - personal, academic, journalistic - unless I could be smoking. I was usually a pack-a-week, social smoker, but not when I had an asssignment due. It's the only time I ever chain smoked - well, that and, when I was an actor, during technical dress rehearsals, which are hellish, living-envy-the-dead days and everyone's on something.

I haven't had a cigarette since I was about three weeks pregnant; I quite suddenly went off them, and had no idea why. Since the kid's been around, there've been a few times I've been out, and my Fella steps outside for one of his increasingly occasional smokes, and I'll think, Yeah, that'd be nice, without any real urge.

I've recently been having a bit of writer's block, and I've only just figured out that the block corresponds exactly to my finishing the easter candy. I can see the office waste-paper basket from here, and it's full of wrappers of one kind or another. I have a caramel in my mouth as I write this; I bought a bag in anticipation of writing a few record reviews tonight.

I have become a total sugar junkie.