Back in the big city, this would be fine.

The club culture had necessitated all night corner shops. You could buy rips and tray bakes at four in the morning, if you wanted to. I spent a good few months living from five pm to eight am and never ran out of baccy. Now I’m home, in the real world.

Four hours before Razi’s Convenience store lifts it’s shutters. Six before Tesco opens.

You don’t know how devastating it is to have Rizlas and no tobacco. Far worse than the other way around. You can jimmy a rolled up paper filter out of its dog-end and smooth it out, fill it up, feel proud of your waste-not want-not spirit.

In a fit of unnecessary neatness I have emptied the ashtrays in the kitchen and bedroom. This one, last, cigarette will have to get me through. I’ll smoke it slowly.

It is now almost all roach. The last, sharp, burning tang of old tar will hold me over, while a determined effort to finish this third edit occupies my hands. Four-seventeen am. Sadly, coffee will only make it worse.

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