ample outdoor seating and when I was served by the muscular waiter with his slightly lopsided artificial smile my eyes, for the first time in days, gobbled wantonly at the shapely male form. Convivially I ordered more tapas than I could possibly eat: squid, patatas ali oli, mini-paella, sundried tomatoes with chorizo, and to drink: an extra large glug of spicy local Rioja. I smoked extravagantly, breaking only to put the occasional forkful of tapas into my mouth. Exuberant, I chatted amiably with the waiter in Spanish and let him teach me some Catalan. He praised my pronunciation which I took as flattery buttering me up for a big tip but I was pleased nevertheless. I left the large tip he hoped for, wandered laconically towards the bus as I smoked yet another cigarette, noting with fondness the interplay of alcohol and nicotine on my central nervous system, and when I arrived back in Palma I had spent everything my father had given me and felt entirely restored by my decadent afternoon.
When I lit a cigarette on the hotel balcony my father simply remarked, unsurprised: ' so you ' ve taken up smoking again.' He didn ' t phrase it as a question. I was tempted to offer some justification but there was no need. We both knew I wouldn ' t make it through a trip away with money in my pocket without buying cigarettes. The remainder of the holiday was, in stark contrast to its beginnings, just as holidays should be: carefree, indulgent and smoky. When I returned to the UK my mother wasn ' t surprised either and she blamed my father for failing to break my unpopular habit, but we all knew I hadn ' t ever really wanted to quit. I never tried to quit smoking again, having learned a valuable lesson about self-control: Don ' t bother with it.
smokers ' manifesto 16