I’ve been described as many things in my life – some good, some bad. Character from a 2000s romcom? Don’t mind if I do. Someone Roald Dahl might write in as comic relief? That one not so much. Most stereotypical case of ADHD ever? Well, that one just didn’t make sense.

At no point in my life, though, have I ever been called scary. That is, I have never been called scary until yesterday, when, on our walk to the shops to pick up a 12 pack of Modelos, my friend turned to me, with genuine fear in his eyes, and told me I was starting to freak him out.

“I’ve never actually been a smoker. Only socially. Or when I’m stressed. Or when I’m really craving one.”

My withdrawals had begun entirely by accident the day before. At least I think it was by accident. To be honest, I don’t remember many of the reasons why I decided to hand over my half-finished Marlboros and announce I was quitting. However, I do remember that, in the same breath, I announced that it was only to prove I was categorically, completely, not an addict.

Really, if you think about it, I’m not. First of all, let’s get one thing clear. Aside from while living in Spain (It’s not possible to be addicted to nicotine in Europe; it’s cultural immersion) I only get through, at max, half a pack a week. I’ve also quit before. At 16, while at Reading Festival, I chucked my cigarettes onto our campfire and watched £15 and a risky trip to the corner shop burn up between tents. It was a complete waste of time and money, however: not only did I pick up the habit again pretty quickly, but also the guy who I fancied (the one who had told me smoking was gross, of course) decided he was more interested in keeping the fire going than going to Post Malone with me. Most importantly, I’ve never actually been a smoker. Only socially. Or when I’m stressed. Or when I’m really craving one.

“When your boss screws you over, it’s normal to want to take long, deep breaths through a narrow rolled up piece of filter paper.”

Because I’m categorically, completely, not an addict, quitting has been easy. I’ve had my moments, of course, but these are all easily explained away. For example, when your boss screws you over, it’s normal to want to take long, deep breaths through a narrow rolled up piece of filter paper. It calms you down. That’s why people meditate. So, when you’re on the phone outside, and your left hand is free, of course you want to hold something long and thin between two fingers. That’s why people doodle. So, when you get a call from your friend, and she tells you her fish died (a fish whom, I might add, you thought of as your own, a fish whom you fed and clothed, and loved) then excuse you for turning to an old vice. It could be worse. It could be heroin. Admittedly, it could also be a bowl of ice cream, but I’m a woman, not a saint. And this fish really, really did feel like my own. Even if he used to float away to the back of his bowl whenever I came near him, the wanker.

The other consideration is a philanthropic one. I live in a house of 9, and there is only one other smoker. In these cold desert nights, I dread to think how lonely he’ll feel when going up to the roof alone for smoke – doing exactly what he did all those months before I moved in. There’s also the economy to consider. Here in Mexico you can get menthols for 4 pounds a pack; surely I should save my quitting for when I’m in a country where menthols are illegal, and where I'm at least 12 quid poorer every time I buy a new pack.

It was while I was working all this out, putting it all together tight (wrapped up tight like a rollie, if you will) and breathing through another hot flush that I realised maybe, just maybe, I might be addicted.

Of course, now I am addicted, I can’t just quit. You can’t just quit things you’re addicted to. That’s why methadone clinics exist. How will therapists continue to make a living? There is only one thing to do, then. Head up to the roof, with a fresh pack of sandía (watermelon) menthols in hand, and draw myself a tattoo which will honour Pancho and the legacy he left. Pancho, of course, was our fish.