It is Saturday night. I am sat at my desk typing eagerly as I sup my delicious glass of wine, throw a disgusting orange Dorito down my neck and - hang on - light this nicotinal arsenous monoxid preparation taken bronchially as an infumation; a cigarette.
I have quite literally been perfect right up until this last minute or two. What can I say? I'm sorry, but not as sorry as I'd be for the rest of the fidgety evening if I'd forsaken this bottle of cheap crap, bag of cheaper crap, and packet of gorgeous fags.
One night. Just give me one night.
Hang on, why am I asking for permission?